Dead to Rights
by wimmer511
Summary: Teresa never dreamed she'd die at the young age of 26, but when she wakes up as a ghost she discovers that's the least of her problems. Desperate to take care of her unfinished business, she find's only one man, a fake psychic by the name of Patrick Jane, can help her. Ghost meets Just Like Heaven. AU but IC.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hey everyone, long time no see. I think some of you may have already heard that my Mentalist fanfics have been picked up by a publisher. This is the next one in the series. I'm posting it here first because my publisher has made a few changes that mean my drafts won't have as many eyes on them before publication and I'm nervous. I'd love if you could help me out and let me know what you think. I'm looking for any parts that are confusing, slow, or plot holes, plus overall impressions. The entire book will be posted by Sunday at the latest.**

 **If you don't care to do that, no worries. Either way, I'm excited to be back here. This fandom is amazing.**

 **Quick side note: I haven't given up on Rear Window-it's still in the works because it's one of the books that got picked up. That said, I have to finish a couple others and dig my way out of the hole I wrote myself in there. I'll have the end up probably around the first of second week of September at the latest.**

Chapter One

Beginning of April

Cheers and jeers sounded from the kitchen at the 35th precinct as Detective Teresa Lisbon meandered in. Several officers, including Lisbon's partner, Kimball Cho, stared at a small box T.V. that sat on top of the avocado-colored Kenmore refrigerator.

"He's doing it again," Detective Spencer pointed at the screen. "This is the best part."

Detective Monroe hummed the theme song of the X-files, hushed seconds later by two other detectives at the back of the table. One of them slapped him over the head.

Cho at the front of the table facing the screen, behind him rested a half empty Tupperware container with his chops sticks resting perfectly straight atop the lid. Cho's mouth hung slightly agape, and he folded his arms tight over his chest. The entertainment had to be good to be getting that much of a reaction from her normally stoic partner and to be keeping him from the homemade roasted duck and dumplings his mother had sent with him after he'd visited her in Oakland over the weekend.

Two of her younger brothers, Stan and Tommy, lived in Oakland and often stopped by the Cho's house for dinner, and a time or two, she'd had the opportunity to sample Mrs. Cho's cooking. _Yum_.

Lisbon stepped further into the room and turned her attention to the screen. A handsome man, with curly blond hair that someone had tried to tame back with gel, stood on a brightly lit stage with his eyes closed. He wore an expensive, slightly shiny gray suit and had a hand outstretched in front him, fingers splayed; in his other hand he held a microphone. He kind of looked like a stock broker.

"I see them—your mother, father, and brother… twin brother." The man's kept his voice light and airy.

The shot panned out to a theater with stadium seating filled with an audience of hundreds of people, all seemingly holding their breath. The camera panned back to the stage, but instead of showing a close up of the man, it now showed him standing next to a woman. Her hands covered her mouth.

He opened his eyes, showcasing the prettiest blue-green irises Lisbon had ever seen. He faced the woman and reached for one of her hands. She took it.

"They're glad you weren't with them when their car crashed." She gasped, and he continued, "Your mother left something—something you keep on your person. A pendant?"

The girl's eyes widened.

"No, a locket."

She grabbed at a necklace hanging under her shirt, visible only by the chain.

"She's glad you're wearing it. She wants you to be happy and live a fulfilled life."

The tears the woman held back spilled down her face, and she hugged the man.

Lisbon pulled her chin back. _What on earth?_

The audience erupted into applause at the same time the detectives started to boo and hiss. The man ran his hands up and down the woman's back and whispered something in her ear. Lisbon frowned.

Pretending to talk to a person's deceased relatives was just about as low, especially considering the amount of money he was raking in, if you considered the number of butts in seats. Still, he'd been pretty convincing. The girl had been legitimately surprised that he'd known about the locket.

A detective leaning against the table to Cho's left, grabbed the paper towel from the hands of his partner, wadded it and chucked it at the screen. "What a scam!"

Detective Spencer pointed at him. "Come on, admit it, it's convincing."

Another of her colleagues got up and knocked into Spencer as he passed. "So was your penalty shot and look where that got us."

Spencer came out of his seat. "We did not lose that game because of my penalty shot!"

"Keep telling yourself that," said another detective as he opened the fridge.

Spencer was new to their precinct. He'd been a cop for several years, and now at the ripe old age of thirty, he'd finally become a detective. He was still being worn in. He seemed so young considering he was four years her senior.

The Serious Crimes Unit had played the SCU of the 15th precinct two weeks ago in a game of basketball and the 35th had lost by one point. If even one of Spencer's penalty shots had sunk, they'd have won, and no one would let him forget it. The day after, their unit had pelted him with miniature basketballs when he'd arrived at work. Since then and in the last two weeks, he'd opened his desk drawers to find the small balls filling them, had his lunch replaced with them in the refrigerator, and had been pelted once again while using a urinal.

He took it all in stride.

Lisbon faced Cho, and the two exchanged glances. He shrugged.

Lisbon pointed at the T.V. "What's this?"

Spencer smirked. "Only the greatest psychic on the west coast."

"Right." She shook her head. Crossing the room to the table, she grabbed the remote from it and turned the T.V. off. "War room's ready, gents, but if you'd prefer to stay here and watch the pretty-boy psychic instead of catching bad guys—"

The detectives marched past her to the bullpen.

"Pretty boy, huh?" One of the detectives teased as they all marched past.

Another whistled to add to the effect. "Hear that, Lisbon likes pretty boys."

She shook her head. _Men._

Cho put his leftovers in his lunch bag and placed it in the fridge.

"I'm surprised you let them rope you into watching that." She nodded toward the T.V. as they headed to the bullpen.

"As soon as they heard the Feds sent a psychic to consult on the Tourneau Cartel case, they came in here and pulled this up—"

She turned on Cho. "The Feds are sending us a psychic?"

Cho blinked down at her, his dark brown eyes appearing black in the dim lighting of the precinct. "You didn't know?"

"On this case?" She pointed over her shoulder toward the bullpen.

"They're concerned with how often the Tourneau's have avoided us. They told Bosco they wouldn't interfere if we agreed to work with their man. He'll be here for the briefing."

"When did you hear about this?"

"This morning."

 _Well, perfect_. Why hadn't anyone told her? Why hadn't Bosco? She placed her hands on her hips. "How did I not hear about this?"

Cho breathed out and walked past her, calling over his shoulder as he went. "Talk to Bosco."

#

Sergeant Bosco stood at the front of the room, going over the logistics of the sting operation. He stood under six feet, had broad shoulders and a muscular build. Not someone you wanted to mess with. Lisbon stood at the back of the bullpen with Cho and decided she might want to mess with him, anyway. Bosco often made a habit of keeping her and Cho in the dark about things. Being the youngest detectives in their precinct made Bosco over protective. Except this time, it hadn't been them, it'd just been her.

Bosco cocked his head to the side, exposing the top of his balding head as he pointed to a building in the center of a map pinned to a board behind him. "Our confidential informant tells us that the major heads of the cartel will be in this building tonight at ten p.m. We'll be moving in shortly after that."

"How many men will be there?" one of the detectives asked.

Bosco shook his head. "The Tourneau brothers will be there, as will Wood and Krauss, and five or so of their head traffickers."

The Tourneau's lead the cartel with Wood, though Wood was believed to be the real man in charge, and Krauss was their go to man for when they didn't want to get their hands dirty.

"With the heads there, we can expect anywhere between fifteen and twenty armed guards, so use extreme caution. We're placing Civvies on every road leading away from the building." Civvies were plain clothes cops. Bosco signaled to several red tacks on the map. "We'll also have officers stationed on top of all the surrounding buildings. Spencer and Monroe, you'll be leading a team through the front entrance, Grayson and Taylor, you'll take your team through the door on the west side of the building, Jacobs and Norman the service entrance at the back of the building, and Lisbon and Cho will take the escape landing at the east side of the building. Any questions?"

No one spoke.

Bosco went on. "Assistant District Attorney Stephanie Striker plans on trying this case herself and wants these men…"

Spencer leaned toward her and Cho. "Wait for it."

Bosco cleared his throat. "Dead to rights."

Spencer pumped his fist at the term Striker always used, a legal term meaning just what it sounded like. A case with so much evidence, you'll be dead to rights. Lisbon and Cho grinned at him.

"One strike, Striker, strikes again," Detective Monroe said and everyone groaned except Spencer, who gave him a high-five.

Being the only woman in the DA's office, Striker had a reputation for being tough but fair, _and_ for winning. She'd worked hard to earn her place, and Lisbon understand that. It'd taken years and a lot of pushing for her to achieve her calling.

"Is our information from her C.I. or ours?" one of the detectives asked.

"Ours," Bosco said. "But he's an extremely reliable source and we're confident his Intel is correct."

Lisbon nodded. Too bad, Striker's C.I. had a perfect record, but it's not like the guy would have an in on every cartel out there. Besides, their C.I. had always been reliable in the past.

"All right, suit up." Bosco clapped his hands together. "And everyone come back in one piece."

#

Climbing the escape ladder to the second floor, Lisbon and Cho kept their footsteps light. It was moments like these, in over twenty pounds of Kevlar vest, that Lisbon was glad she and Cho hit the weight room every morning. Being the binky squad meant the two of them always got the hard jobs. Not that they ever complained. Being in good shape made teasing their elders all the more fun.

The other teams waited for the signal they were in place, already stationed below. They reached the small landing on the second floor where the door stood and stopped. A big chunk of glass had been knocked out of the window they had to crawl through, leaving one jagged piece hanging dangerously from the top. Lisbon signaled to the hole so Cho would know they couldn't radio in.

Cho nodded, took a few light steps down to the first landing, and leaned out over the side. He gestured to the teams below and returned. Lisbon meanwhile, hunkered down and eased past the window, then lifted it slowly. The shard left in the window wobbled precariously until she'd opened it all the way.

Cho stopped on the step just below the landing. She signaled with two fingers for him to go right, and she'd go left. Gripping the piece of glass so it wouldn't fall, Cho ducked through first. He did a quick sweep left to right then grabbed hold of the glass for her to slide through too. She moved in to the left, careful to drop quietly on the concrete floor.

Loud angry voices wafted from down the dank and rusty hallway and into the rafters above. A light flickered on and off about halfway down, near a junction. Easing their way down the hall to the T-bend, they stopped and listened. The voices increased with proximity, but the sound echoed too much to tell which hallway they came from. Cho nodded toward the bend and headed off in that direction. She continued straight.

Why weren't the other teams here yet? They should've been flooding the building by now.

At the end of the hall she came to another hall and took it.

"This is our business, not yours and we'll run it as we see fit." A scratchy male voice reverberated from the room at the end of the hall.

Another person began to speak, but too quiet to make out the words. The tone, unlike the other voice, shrilled around her.

Lisbon paused, wanting to use her radio to contact Cho, or anyone, but the echoing was too loud, too much. She stopped at the door, her back to the wall to the right of the handle. Going in there alone was a bad idea. Too dangerous. There could be any number of people in there with any number of different kinds of weapons. She had to find the rest of the teams.

Taking a deep breath, she took a step back just as a loud pop blasted through the building. The echo of the gun's report bounced around and forced Lisbon to cover her ears. Not two seconds later, four more in rapid succession followed.

Lisbon gripped her gun and pulled the door open. The teams would be on their way now. She moved to the side and looked right and left. Hundreds of crates filled the room. At the back, a shadow crossed in front of several of the crates.

Gun held aloft, she moved with ease through the containers and toward the back of the room, checking around her for people as she went. She squeezed between one of the crates and an I-beam, the rusted metal scratched over her sleeve. Then she saw it; a small colorful painting of a pond with lily pads and a bridge over it leaned against a container.

She furrowed her brow and stepped out from her cover into the open space.

A crate stood open, the contents laid out on a folding table. Semiautomatic and automatic weapons, a sniper rifle, and several grenades lay toward the end of the table close by where she stood. On the butt of one of the larger guns, the serial number had been scratched out. Around the table lay four bodies, each shot once in the chest, except one that had a shot to the body and one to the head.

A man in a hooded coat hunched over that body facing away from her.

"Hands on your head," Lisbon ordered, "or I shoot to kill."

The man jerked up, as though surprised, and raised his hands.

Lisbon tapped her ear piece. "Upstairs, at the end of the hall. I have four dead and one in custody."

As she spoke, the man spun around gun in hand. A sharp pain exploded at the base of her skull and then a brilliant pale blue green light engulfed her.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

The thundering applause from the stadium made the stage vibrate up into Patrick Jane's shoes. He wiggled his toes against the tickling sensation, smiled, and gave one more deep bow as the curtain dropped for the last time that night. He'd already done one encore with a quick reading and after they closed the curtains that time, the crowd had started chanting his name until they'd opened them again for one last bow.

The vibration seemed to settle somewhat, muffled by the folds of the thick, velvety fabric. He stuck his hands in his trouser pockets and stared at it. He remembered the days when this kind of thing had excited him. He didn't need to do these events. He had enough money at this point in his life that retirement was a real option.

He rubbed his chin, his fingers sliding over the smooth skin there. And he could stop shaving. These events and shaving were too exhausting.

"Mr. Jane," a woman wearing a gray pantsuit, a headset, and caring a clipboard approached him. She'd introduced herself as Karen before he'd gone on stage. She extended her hand, which he took—though that was exhausting too. As was the fake smiling.

He needed a nap.

"That was wonderful," Karen said. "You're truly an inspiration."

He placed his other hand atop hers and made eye contact. "And you're too kind." Tired or not, he was a showman—one of the greatest if the vibrating stage was any indication—and he did have his reputation to uphold.

She blushed. "We have your car waiting out back for you, as you requested. Is there anything else I can… do for you?" She batted her lashes.

He held his smile but thought, _really_? What happened to the thrill of the chase? Not that he was up for chasing anyone, but women these days didn't care if he remembered their names. _Boring_.

When he'd first met his wife, thirteen years ago, she'd immediately set the bar higher than any other woman ever had hope of reaching. Her family joined his circus, and he'd immediately been drawn to her.

They'd both been fifteen, and he'd been excited to have someone his age around. Even at such a young age, Angela had known how to play the game. She taunted him with her name for weeks. He wondered if he would've ever learned it had her parents not slipped up and called out for her in front of him. Even then she'd been amused and had found new ways to make him earn her.

He'd started proposing at eighteen, she'd finally said yes at twenty, and at twenty-two they married. It had never been boring. Not even in the end.

Ten years, he'd had with her. Ten short years. And then two plus years of this.

He patted boring-Karen's hand, which had turned suddenly cold and clammy. "Thank you; I'm good."

She walked him to the back door where she gave him an awkward kiss on the cheek. "God bless you."

 _Right._ He slouched out to his limo, where his driver opened the door for him.

"Good night, Sir?"

"Yes, thank you, Mark." He got in and ripped off his shiny silver tie. He loathed ties. Always had. Why it'd ever become fashionable to wear a noose, he'd never understand.

Mark pulled out of the parking lot and called back through the center console. "You're scheduled to meet with the Sacramento PD in forty-five minutes."

Patrick sunk in his seat. _Oh, that._

He'd forgotten about that. He'd started consulting with the Feds under the bequest of his mentor and friend, Virgil Minnelli, last spring. For some reason, he'd been more up to it then, but now, he seemed to be reverting back to how he'd been the first two years after he'd lost Angela, starting to feel like he'd lost her all over again. He should have been concerned about why that'd hit him now, but being concerned took effort.

Minnelli was concerned. Had asked if Patrick had been through any upheavals of late. Patrick couldn't remember suffering any great tragedies, but come to think of it, the last year in reflection was a little foggy.

Patrick had agreed to help Minnelli if only to get him off his back. But now, after the show, he didn't have it in him to pretend. Sure, his skills were real enough, he was an amazing detective—no hubris about it. The problem was they all thought he was a psychic too. He was done playing psychic for the day.

"Take me to The Giant Head." The Giant Head was a bar known for its "giant" mugs of beer, bad puns, and illegal gambling, though the last was a well-known "secret."

Mark's gaze flicked up to the rear-view mirror. It was too fast for Patrick to be sure, but the look Mark had given him had either been disappointment or possibly concern. Mark cleared his throat. "Yes sir."

Patrick leaned over to a small mini bar at the side of the limo and pulled out his vice of choice, a Bloody Mary. Air hissed out as he opened his can, red liquid splashing on the lip as he did. He sucked it off and then took a swig. It was such a practical drink, tomato juice for days when he didn't want to eat, and vodka to help him forget _why_ he didn't want to eat.

Reaching to his ring finger with his thumb, Patrick twisted his gold wedding band around and closed his eyes. A little over a year ago, he'd managed to take the ring off. And he'd kept it off for a time. But a few months ago, he'd put it back on. Mad at himself for ever having taken it off in the first place. Angela was the only woman for him. Which meant he had a lonely road ahead.

#

Nine cans of Bloody Mary, and fifteen-thousand dollars down in the tiny, dark back room of Giant Head, Patrick appraised his hand; a king of hearts, a queen of spades, a nine diamonds, a five diamonds, and a three of spades.

How had this happened? It'd been a long time since he'd played so poorly.

Smoke swirled about him and the four other men at the card table, dodging in and out of the swinging light that hung over the table—the only light in the room. His opponents stared at him with self-satisfied grins that seemed to throb bigger and smaller along with the bass coming from the club down the hall.

One of the men, DeAngelo, leaned forward until the light shone down on his silver hair and Tom Selleck-mustache. He pulled his cigar from his mouth and puffed out another cloud of smoke right into Patrick's face.

Patrick coughed and fanned the smoke away.

Mustache tapped the ash off the end of his cigar into a crystal dish on the green felt table. His pile of red and black chips easily outdid everyone else's, but the piles of the other three men were nothing to turn their noses up at. "So, what's your move?"

Patrick shuffled his five remaining chips around, each worth five hundred. Trying to bluff his way out of this loss would be stupid. He picked up his chips and tossed them into the center of the table with the rest of the chips. The pot was close to forty-thousand now and stupid was a relative term. "I see your two-thousand and call."

A tall skinny man across the table who'd been smoking a joint when Patrick first came in, claiming medicinal reasons, raised a finger at him and waggled it. "You're short two-thousand to match me."

Patrick leaned back, resting one arm on his leg. "I'm good for it."

"You know the rules." A third man, short and stocky but no less intimidating, rested his hands on the table. "Match or fold."

Patrick opened his wallet and pulled out four hundreds. "That's all I have."

"Then you fold." The fourth man with a big nose, black hair and blue eyes, reached for the chips Patrick had thrown in and started to push them and his bills back.

Patrick placed a hand on Big Nose's. "Wait." His gold wedding band glinted in the swaying light. He pulled his hand back and yanked the ring off, then tossed it in the center. "That's worth two-thousand, at least."

Mr. Mustache rolled his cigar around with his teeth. "Cocky, I like that."

"I don't." Big Nose shook his head. "I fold."

Patrick quirked a smile and tapped his cards on the table.

"Your wedding ring?" Short and Stout threw his cards down. "I'm out."

"Me too." Tall and lanky tossed his cards down too.

Patrick watched Mustache, DeAngelo, his carefully guarded facial expressions, not just hidden under his facial hair, as he decided what to do. Straight-faced, Mustache glanced up and frowned. Patrick had no doubt that the man was measuring Patrick's recent failures with his previous winning streaks. This was the biggest pot they'd had in a while and it would be wise to assume Patrick had been playing them until this moment—easing them into a sense of security.

He was shrewd. Patrick held the man's eye contact, keeping the smallest of grins on his face.

Throwing his ring in, so thoughtlessly the way he had, had been smart. None of these men had ever seen him without it and being the criminals and cons they were, had checked up on him. They would know the significance of the ring. Would know that he would never bet it recklessly.

"What's it going to be, DeAngelo?" Patrick asked.

"You're also an amazing bluffer who's down fifteen grand." Mustache leaned back in his chair. "It's a tough call, Mr. Jane. I've never known you to be overtly impulsive." He threw his cards down.

Patrick's smile widened, and he reached for the pot.

Mustache slammed his hand down and Patrick jumped. He then turned his cards over one at a time revealing three of a kind. A horrible hand. So bad that the other men at the table hissed and squirmed in their seats, but Mustache remained calm.

Patrick's smile dropped, his gaze whipping to the ring and back. He cleared his throat and spoke in a soft timber. "How did you know?"

Leaning forward, Mustache grabbed Patrick's ring and slid it on his right hand ring finger. "You're unhinged, my friend." He glanced at the ring and then signaled to the other men at the table. "These fools may not have seen it, but I never miss unhinged."

The room warmed, suddenly stuffy, the air thick and difficult to breath. Patrick jolted up, knocking his metal chair over behind him, and sending it skidding across the cement floor.

DeAngelo spun the ring around his finger and Patrick thought for sure the motion made the room spin as well. He rushed from the room, down the hall toward club, the heat seemed to increase tenfold and throbbed along with the loud music ahead, pulsing up his throat.

Behind him, DeAngelo yelled. "Don't come back again unless you mean to play for real."

Patrick shoved through the throng of bodies writhing to raucous music, the door to the club so near. Reaching it, he hurtled past two women in miniskirts and tight shirts and into the cool night air. He barely crossed the small walking alley to the other side as red liquid streamed out his mouth.

#

The insistent blast of a car horn, followed immediately by another coming in pumping beats, jolted Lisbon awake. The sun rose over the building across the street and directly into her eyes. She squinted and raised a hand just in time to see one motorists flip off another as he passed illegally using lanes of oncoming traffic to do so. Cars swerved to miss the vehicle.

She jumped off the ground, her normal morning grogginess made her dizzy for a moment. Going up on her toes, she looked for the plate number, but the vehicle had gone too far. Instead she got the make and model, then reached for her cell phone. She'd call it in and give dispatch the location.

Reaching into her front pockets, she found nothing, so she felt her back pockets. No phone. "Just great." She'd lost it. She glanced around for it and froze.

 _Where am I?_ None of this looked familiar. She stood in a lovely residential business area—elms lined the road on either side, a cute little park sat directly across the street, and a little market and diner just down from the building she'd woken up in front of.

 _What on earth am I doing here?_ And more importantly, how did she get here?

She racked her brain for the last thing she remembered. She'd been in a meeting at work. They'd been preparing the sting on the Tourneaus, and then… She shook her head. No, there'd been more. They'd… they'd definitely gone to a building last night. Quick flashes of climbing a ladder, the cool sensation of metal against her palms, and of stepping through a window with large shards of broken glass came to her.

A sudden terror gripped her. Had she been kidnapped? She glanced around the neighborhood and immediately dismissed the idea. Why would cartel members kidnap her and drop her off here off all places? If she wasn't mistaken, she couldn't have been more than a five or ten minute drive from downtown Sacramento in a really upscale neighborhood with several apartment buildings whose monthly rent would probably take double her monthly salary.

The building she stood in front of had a doorman. In fact, why hadn't he woken her, or called the police?

 _Oh no! Cho!_ He was probably freaking out. Wondering what had happened to her and if she was safe. She marched up to the apartment building and grabbed the handle but missed. She stared down at her hand and shook her head.

 _Man, maybe I'm not okay._ Her depth perception was off. She reached for the handle again, but her hand passed right through it. Her jaw dropped. What on earth? Was she drugged? She had to be because she was seeing things. She tried with her other hand, but it went right through as well.

Okay, she was definitely drugged. What had they given her? She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Then she looked inside at the doorman.

"Excuse me, Sir." He didn't look up from his paper, so she yelled. "Hello! Can you let me in?"

No response whatsoever. _Wow, that's some intense sound proof glass._ She jumped up and down waving her arms over her head and yelling out, but still no response.

 _Pointless._ She turned and looked for a pedestrian. A woman jogged up the street with a Doberman. Lisbon rushed over to her.

"Excuse me, ma'am. I'm a police officer. Can I borrow your cell phone?"

The woman ran right past, and the Doberman veered right at her in a trot. She tried to jump back so that she wouldn't step on him, but he was too close and walked right through her. She came to a halt as a warbling sensation hit her legs. The sensation reminded her of how her foot felt when she fell asleep, only icy cold.

As she stood motionless, someone walked through her from behind, her entire body prickled with cold. She sucked in a gasp and backed off the sidewalk toward the building. She stared at her hands, lifting them to the light and then she saw it—her near transparency.

"No, no, no!" She cried, shaking her head. _This can't be happening._ Who would take care of her brothers? James wasn't even supposed to graduate high school for another two-and-a-half months.

Her brothers. Who would look after them if not her?

She fell to her knees as great wracking sobs pierced her. She wasn't ready. She just wasn't ready.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

One Month Later

Grabbing several packs of sugar from the sugar caddy, Patrick took the ends and shook until the powder all went to one side of the packs. He ripped them open and poured the grainy white contents into his mug of steaming tea. As much as he liked his friendly little neighborhood diner, with its checkered floor, red booth seats, and jukebox, their tea left a lot to be desired.

Too bitter. Always.

His friend, Zak, sat across the booth and cleared his throat. "Do you really need to do that? That's disgusting."

Patrick grabbed his spoon from the table, never removing his eyes from his cup, and stirred. "Do you really need more neon colored shirts?"

Zak fiddled with the collar of his coral-colored button up then pulled on the lapels of his dark suit coat. "Shnazzy, huh? I'll take as many as I can get my hands on. I want to stand out in the crowd of stuffy art dealers here in Sacramento."

"Just let your clients know your 'art' comes from the black market. That should do the trick."

Zak shook his head, sending a loose lock of his dirty blond quiff haircut back into place. He grinned and lifted his coffee for a sip. "You think that'd help?"

Patrick scrunched his nose at the bitter smell of it. "What was it you wanted to see me about?"

"Your birthday." Zak rubbed at his slightly curved nose with his thumb. He'd gotten the curve years ago after being caught selling a fake Rembrandt to a shady Russian ambassador with diplomatic immunity. Zak wore it as a badge—not that Patrick could blame him. In all honesty, he'd been lucky to get away with his life, and the curve had given him a bad boy vibe that many women seemed to like. Not that Zak had ever shined to any of them. Zak only had eyes for his wife, Valerie, to whom he'd been married six years.

Their server came and dropped off an egg sandwich for Patrick and a bloody steak for Zak.

Ever since Patrick lost all the contents of his stomach weeks ago on that fateful night, he'd decided he needed to make more of an effort to eat properly—fill his stomach before he drank his sorrows away. He could get more Vodka from the store next to the diner and so dug into his sandwich with gusto. As soon as he was done here, he could go home and pass out on his couch again.

"What about my birthday?" Patrick asked.

"It's in a week."

Patrick took a big bite and then a deep breath as he chewed. He needed to relax. Sure, he didn't want to be around anyone right now, but he'd already alienated Minnelli, who hadn't spoken to him in a month after his no show with SacPD. Zak was a safe bet, a good friend, a fellow conman who required very little effort from him. "Yeah, I've been thinking about that, I'd like to keep things low key this year."

Zak cut his stack of pancakes with the side of his fork and glanced up at Patrick. "You were more fun last year."

Sadly, that was true. He shrugged.

"Look, I hoped to avoid telling you this, but I can see you need a kick in the pants." Zak glanced around as though looking for spies.

Patrick raised his brows. Oh, yeah, this was going to be good.

"Pete and Sam called me. They want to throw you a huge surprise party."

 _Oh no._ It was just as he feared; the couple were planning an intervention. And worse one with a big cake with candles he'd have to blow out, and people with presents he'd have to pretend to be happy about, and toasts to a life he was mostly definitely not living well. "I can't believe this."

"Can't you?" Zak sniffed and to Patrick, it almost sounded amused. "And just so you know, they're inviting a whole slew of single women."

Patrick dropped his fork. "What?"

"I told you, man. You got to get out there again. If you don't, they'll have you on blind dates from now until the cataclysm."

He'd take the cataclysm. Leaning back in his booth, the leather squeaked under him. "I can't… I can't do that."

"It's been three years, Paddy. Look at you, you're a mess. When was the last time you took a shower? Or went further than the diner ten feet out your apartment door?"

"This place is a classic!" Patrick looked out the window.

"Angela wouldn't have wanted you—"

"Stop."

"—to wither away in self-pity—"

"I said stop!" Patrick turned his steely gaze on his friend as the rest of the patrons in the restaurant glanced in their direction. Patrick lowered his voice. "You don't know what Angela would've wanted."

Zak buttoned his blazer and leaned forward. "She was my friend too. I cared about her. I care about you." He signaled to Patrick with his whole hand, his fingers together. "Whatever this is, it's not what she wanted. I really thought you were starting to come around. For awhile, it was like you'd found happiness again. And now, not even a year later, and whatever it was you found it's just gone again? It doesn't make sense. I mean, I get it; Angela was one in a million. If you need to grieve, then grieve, but don't wallow in it."

Patrick clenched his teeth.

"Fine," Zack buttoned his blazer. "I'll call the party off on one condition."

"What?"

"Valerie has a friend she wants you to meet. You have to go on a double date." Zak buttoned his suit coat and stood—his steak now somehow mysteriously gone. He placed a hand on Patrick's shoulder. "Double date on your birthday or no deal."

Patrick shrugged his hand off. "Fine."

"Fine. I'll call you in a few days." He strutted off, him and his nicely ironed suit.

Patrick didn't bother looking at the wrinkles in his own suit and reached for his tea, then stopped with his hand suspended mid-air. As irritating as he currently found Zak, he was right. The last thing Patrick needed was Sam following him around, mothering him.

When his mom had left him and his dad when he was a teen, he learned to grit his teeth and bare it. When his dad had packed up the trailer and left the circus without him, he'd faked it until he'd made it, and while Angela…

A large lump formed in his throat and he cleared it. He could fake it through a blind date. He'd have to. Pulling two twenties from his wallet, he dropped them on the table and stood. He was going to need to stop at the grocery store on the way home. After this, a can of Bloody Mary wasn't going to cut. He needed straight up Vodka.

#

Lisbon stared at the high-rise apartment building she'd woken up as a spirit in front of a month ago, and squinted against the glare of the sunlight that bounced off its glass exterior. Try as she might, she hadn't been able to go more than a block in either direction of it.

She'd learned about the boundary the hard way on her first day as a spirit. She was a spiritual person, always had been, and she firmly believed that if she was still here, it was because she had some unfinished business. And the only thing important enough to tie her to this plane of existence was her brothers.

Knowing it impossible to get a cab, she resigned herself to run across the city to her home. If she stayed at a decent jog, she could make it home by the end of the day. Turning in the direction of her house, she'd taken off in a sprint, finding herself suddenly desperate to see her brothers and make sure they were okay.

Coming to the end of the block, she didn't bother waiting for traffic and darted into the road. At least she'd tried. Instead she'd hit an invisible barrier that had thrown her back several feet. And it had hurt. Not the same way it would've hurt if she'd had a body and had walked into a glass door. It was a different kind of hurt, one that made her spirit tremble, very much like when someone walked through her, only with more force. A lot more force.

Since then, she'd found that the boundary moved occasionally, usually by a few buildings, but it always returned to this spot. This building. The epicenter of her never-ending nightmare. Who would've guessed that a luxury apartment building could end up being Hell on earth? She sat on the front steps, leaned back and looked at the clear blue sky.

"God, I know you know what you're doing, and that there's a greater purpose to all this, but I'm at a loss. I need a clue. Why am I here? What am I supposed to do? Just a little hint would be nice? Hello?" She groaned and dropped her chin to her chest, reached up and pinched her brow, not because she had a headache, she wasn't really sure you could get one of those as a spirit, but out of habit from doing it while she was alive.

Coming from the direction of the store, heavy, dragging steps approached. Classy brown, dress shoes came into her line of sight, and skirted around her.

"Pardon me," the man said.

"Sorry," she replied.

He grunted in response and her head shot up as she spun around to look at him. He wore a rumpled suit pants and a white button up, his curly blond hair was in great need of a combing and he carried a brown paper bag, scrunched at the top around a bottle.

"Wait!" she cried out.

He glanced at her over his shoulder, his sea blue-green eyes widening as he hurried to try to open the door, fumbling with his key card in the process.

She bounded to her feet. "You can see me!"


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Patrick cursed his good English manners bestowed on him by his mother in his formative years. He should've kept his mouth shut, like he had every other time he'd seen this woman over the last month.

But he hadn't known she was crazy. She'd seemed too normal to be crazy. She was clean, well dressed, and always in the same blue jeans and a light blue button up blouse that perfectly complemented her skin tone and raven hair. That mixed with a confidence that he had not often encountered in the homeless nixed that notion. He fumbled with his key card, swiping the non-magnetic side first.

In fact her posture was so strong, he wondered briefly if she might be military, but quickly decided it was more likely she was some kind of law enforcement. It made sense the way she moved around the area and the building as though trying to solve a puzzle, much like a detective might. But these were just guesses made on the fly, like he made with everyone.

He'd not given her a second's thought otherwise. Maybe if he had, he would've realized she was clearly insane with her loitering, aimlessness, and her exact same outfit every day.

After finally getting his card to buzz him in, he hurried through the door, irritated when she immediately followed after.

"It's a miracle," she said, keeping pace with him as he crossed the lobby to the elevator. "I literally just prayed for answers and then boom, you appear. It's such a relief. You have no idea what I've been through."

Patrick shot a glance toward the doorman, Ryan, begging for help with a look he hoped bordered on distress. _Stop the crazy woman!_

"Morning, Mr. Jane. It's good to see you out and about." Ryan's gaze trailed to Patrick's paper bag and completely looked over the petite package of fruitcake following him. Ryan had to have seen her out front of the building these last weeks, surely he could figure out she wasn't with him, but no, the man was more concerned with Patrick's drinking.

The elevator dinged open, and he hurried inside, turning on the woman and blocking her entrance. "Look, I don't know what you want, but you can't come up. Only residents are allowed inside the building. I can't help you."

She titled her head, then her eyes widened in recognition. "You're that psychic, Patrick Jane. It all makes sense now. Sort of. I mean, I always thought psychics were fake." She scrunched her nose. "Still kind of do, really. No disrespect of course. You're obviously the real deal."

"So, you're a fan?" A crazy fan—it all made sense now. They were always a nightmare to get rid of. The elevator doors shut on Patrick's shoulders and he winced before sticking his hands out to both doors to hold them open. "I don't do private readings. Sorry."

She pulled her chin back. "Private reading?"

Ryan peered toward them. "Are you talking to me?"

Patrick glared at him and pointed to the woman. "Clearly not."

Ryan blinked. "Okay."

"He can't see me." The woman ducked under his arm and into the elevator. "No one can but you."

He spun to face her. "You can't just follow me around, it's illegal. I could have you arrested."

"I'd like to see that. What would you say exactly? 'Please officer, arrest this ghost.'" She grinned, then pointed behind him. "Watch it."

He lurched forward out of the way of the closing doors, only managing not to careen into her by a couple inches. He stared down at her and made eye contact. His breathing hitched. She blinked up at him through thick dark lashes, her emerald eyes holding him enthralled.

She seemed so familiar, somehow… He almost asked her if they'd met before, but she spoke first in barely a whisper.

"What floor?"

"What?" he asked, and the doors slid open again.

"Mr. Jane," Ryan asked from directly behind him. "Are you all right?"

He jerked away from her, startled, and faced Ryan.

The woman chuckled.

Patrick clenched his jaw and turned. "I'm fine."

She thought she was a ghost? _Brilliant. Crazy and delusional_.

He had to end this—now. He put the hand with the Vodka out to the hold the door again as he pointed to the woman with the other hand. "How many people are in the elevator?"

"He can't see me." The woman threw her hands up. "I'm dead."

Ryan wrung his hands. "How… how many do you think there are?"

Patrick swallowed. Well, that wasn't good. "Nothing… never mind. Goodbye." He gave Ryan a tight smile and punched the button for the tenth floor. After the door closed, Patrick dropped his head to his free hand. "Am _I_ going crazy?"

"No, you're not." She sounded exasperated and slightly amused.

He whipped his gaze up. "I'm seeing things. How is that not crazy?"

"Maybe a little delusional but not crazy." She grinned.

How had it gone from her being the delusional one to him? "And fighting with my hallucination. Fantastic."

The elevator dinged, he rushed out, and she followed.

He whipped his keys from his pant pockets, dropping them to the carpet. She stopped next to him by the door jamb as he picked them up.

"How much have you had to drink today?" she asked.

 _Too much, clearly too much._ He got the door open and faced her, palm up and in her face.

His next-door neighbor walked by. She shook her head of silver hair as she went, a small "tsk" trailed after her.

"Hello, Mrs. Jenkins," he said. The old woman was the biggest gossip he knew and the last thing he needed was her spreading this around. _Patrick Jane is talking to himself. I'd say he's losing his mind._

No thank you.

His stalker pulled her chin back as he stepped into his apartment and closed the door behind him. "Stay," he said.

"I'm not a dog, you know." She called after him, her voice surprisingly clear through the door.

He went straight to the kitchen sink. Pulling the sack off his bottle, he emptied the remnants down the drain.

"Good idea," came the woman's voice from behind him. "You're shaky as it is. You should ease off."

He turned to her. "How'd you get in here?" He walked to the archway of the kitchen and peered past his brown leather couch, the only piece of furniture in his house except his bed, and at the door. It was locked. He _had_ locked it. Which meant she was a hallucination.

She glanced around his apartment with a blank expression. "Nice place. Your, uh," she pointed to his couch, "couch looks cozy."

He hadn't cleaned in a while. There were several Chinese takeout containers piled on the floor by the couch, a trash can full of twelve ounce cans of Bloody Mary and for some reason, a pair of boxers sat in the corner by the big picture window. When had he taken those off?

"Have you lived here long?" She rubbed her hands on the front of her pants as her gaze quickly skirted from the takeout boxes to his underwear, to the big picture window.

"That's none of your business," he snapped as he rushed to the corner and grabbed his boxers. He wadded them up and shoved them in his pant pocket, creating a big bulge. This was ridiculous. She wasn't real.

She lifted her hands, palms up. "Don't bother cleaning on my behalf."

"Just go away. Please." He crossed the room and plopped down on his couch.

And then she was there, sitting next to him. "You're not really a psychic, are you?"

He rubbed at his temples. "There's no such thing as psychics."

"I saw part of your show last month. It was very convincing. Of course, I didn't buy it, but you were good. How'd you do that?"

"Listen, imaginary friend—"

"Teresa."

He blinked at her. "Teresa?"

"Lisbon." She lifted her shoulders as if to ask, _what?_

 _All right._ "Miss Lisbon."

"Detective, actually."

 _Aha!_ He knew she was a cop. Then again, he had imagined her for a month, so he could make her whatever he wanted. The question was why he'd chosen a cop, especially one who kept interrupting him? "You're not real."

She narrowed her eyes and swiveled her knees toward him. "You'd seriously rather believe that you're losing your mind than entertain the possibility that I am real?"

"There's no such thing as ghosts," he replied.

She stared at him a moment then bit her lip. "What about God, do you believe in him?"

He opened his mouth to say no, but found he couldn't, and snapped it shut again. _Weird_. He believed in God. When had that happened?

His mother had been a believer, his father agnostic and so as a kid he'd believed but never practiced until he'd married Angela. With her, he'd gone to church on a regular basis; that was until she'd gotten breast cancer. He'd stopped believing after that. So what had changed since then? He racked his brain, thinking back over the last year of his life. The year in memories was patchy at best.

He scrubbed a hand down his face. He really did need to start laying off the alcohol. Whatever had happened this last year, one thing was definitely clear. "I do believe in God." But just because he believed in God didn't mean he had to believe in ghosts.

"Well, there you go. I'm a spirit with unfinished business and you—"

"You can't be a ghost."

She huffed. "Why not?"

"Because I don't believe in ghosts."

"Surprise." She threw her hands up as though she were tossing confetti.

"No, you can't be real, because there is no afterlife."

She scrunched her face at him. "How can you believe in God and not in an afterlife?"

He stood and started pacing. "With ease… apparently."

Nothing had ever happened in his life that would suggest that there was one. He'd met dozens and dozens of "psychics" and every one of them had been a fake. He was arguably the best in the world and he was a fake. He'd never heard of anyone ever really seeing or speaking with a ghost, and if there was an afterlife, he'd know about it.

She stood and moved in his path making him come to an abrupt halt. "I hate to break it to you but I'm real, which means—"

He went to the TV and turned it on.

"You've got to be kidding me," she said.

He didn't look at her, but he could imagine her throwing her hands in the air. She did that a lot.

He rushed through the living room to his bedroom door, shutting it behind him, but she went through the door. He tried to tune her out, and made a beeline for the bathroom, slamming that door behind him for good measure. "Don't come in here, I'm naked."

He knew that rationalizing with a figment of his imagination didn't make any sense, but he was running out of ideas.

"Hey!" She protested, but didn't follow.

It was exactly what he was hoping, but at the same time, it seemed strange that his imagination supplied a woman who didn't want to see him naked when in real life women were constantly throwing themselves at him.

She called through the door. "I need your help. Please."

He turned the shower on.

"Oh, come on!" She yelled.

He turned on the sink too. Then slid down the wall. If he could just ignore her until the alcohol left his system, he'd be good. She'd be gone, and he'd never look at another bottle of vodka again. He swore he wouldn't, not after this. Not if the consequences were _her_.

"Please!" she called out.

He plugged his ears, shut his eyes and hummed the "Battle Hymn of the Republic." He ignored the irony of his choice, and focused on the music until it was all he could hear, until the water steaming up the mirrors ran cold, until sleep overtook him and he heard no more.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

The throbbing in his skull woke Patrick from a deep sleep. He blinked until the dark blue marbled floor beneath him came into focus. He rolled from his side on to his stomach and pressed his cheek against the cool tile, taking deep breaths to calm the churning in his stomach. He couldn't tell if it was hunger pangs or if he wanted to barf.

The light in the bathroom was off and the frosted window was dark as well. The hum of the flowing water and everything that'd happened came flooding back. He sat bolt upright, hitting his head on the underside of his pedestal sink.

"Ow!" He slid out from under his attacker and slowly moved to his feet, straining to hear over the running water.

It'd been hours, at least. He was definitely sober if the pounding in his skull was anything to go by. What a foreign feeling that was. It'd been a long time since he'd last been sober, and now he remembered part of the reason why.

He inched toward the door and pressed his ear to it. He heard nothing, so he reached for the handle and slowly, slowly eased it open. A chill shot up his spine, in anticipation as he peeked out the door into his bedroom. No hallucination there.

"Hello?" He kept his voice soft.

No response came, so he tip-toed out of the bathroom and across his room. The alarm clock that sat on the floor next to his bed read eight forty-three a.m. Wow, he'd really been out. He'd finished lunch with Zak yesterday around one, which mean he'd slept for sixteen plus hours. He hadn't gotten that much sleep in months. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten that much sleep in a week.

Reaching his bedroom door, he peeked out into the living room. When no little, obnoxious brunette greeted him, he stepped into the room. He lifted his hands over his head and arched his back. The noise from the T.V. hurt his head, so he switched it off and headed for the kitchen. He needed Aspirin and several glasses of water. And honestly, more sleep would probably do him good.

After taking the Aspirin, he headed back to his bathroom and turned off the water in the sink and shower, then went to his room and plopped down face first on to his mattress. Despite the fact that he was still dressed in his suit from yesterday, he snuggled into the down comforter and closed his eyes. It wasn't long until his breathing evened, and his thoughts drifted.

"Hello, Patrick."

His eyes flew open and skittered to the edge of his mattress and away from her voice. She sat on the edge of his bed, resting on one arm, her legs crossed toward him. Light streamed in from the window, its rays illuminating her.

"Considering how little you actually have in your apartment, I'm surprised you have such a nice bed. And these sheets? Are they Egyptian cotton? They look nice." She tossed her raven hair over her shoulder.

Startled by the movement, he scooted back and fell off the far edge of the bed.

A moment later, she peered over the side. "Having a rough time, aren't you?"

No, no, it wasn't real. None of this was real. He wasn't drunk anymore, he'd gotten decent rest, and he was of sound mind for the first time in a while. He jumped to his feet. "This can't be happening."

"Really, we're back to 'this can't be happening?' Jeez!" She stood. "Come on, Patrick. How else can you explain me?"

He shook his head. "I'm having a breakdown. That's got to be it." And if _not_ drinking didn't help, then he was going to drink. A lot.

#

Teresa followed Patrick as he stalked down the booze aisle at the grocery store, pushing a shopping cart with a wheel that kept spinning and throwing the cart off course. That didn't stop Patrick from his determined gate, if anything it made him more forceful with the cart.

If she weren't so irritated with his stubborn obstinate need for her to not be real and for him to be crazy, she probably would have found it funny or sad and pathetic. Or both.

He was a mess. He hadn't even changed out of his clothes from last night, which had been wrinkled to begin with. Now they were an embarrassment. The attractive man she'd seen on TV a month ago was nowhere to be found. Even his pretty blue-green eyes were too bloodshot to hold the same thrall they'd had. What had happened to the poor sucker?

Stopping in the middle of the aisle, he ran a hand through his messy, blond barrel curls while he located his drink of choice. He loaded three vodka bottles into the cart, then crossed to the refrigerated section and loaded cans of Bloody Mary.

She crossed her arms. "They make Bloody Mary in a can?"

He froze for a second, his gaze drifting from her then upwards in an eye roll. He said nothing though, but he grabbed two more six packs, which was response enough. She couldn't wait to see him juggle all of this on his walk back home.

She cleared her throat. "Yeah, you're probably right…"

He slowed his loading into his rapidly filling shopping cart.

"… getting drunk," she continued, "that probably is the best way to deal with your problems. Especially at eight in the morning. Very healthy."

"Mind your business." He turned off the aisle and passed a woman with a baby, grabbing diapers.

The woman quickly scooted out of his way.

Teresa shook her head as she kept pace with him all the way up to the check stand. "You keep this up and people _will_ think you're crazy."

The cute little checker saw him coming, smiled, and straightened her spine. "Mr. Jane, good morning? How are you?"

He returned her smile, though it appeared difficult for him. "Alice, good morning." He unloaded four six packs and three large bottles of Vodka. "How are you?"

Teresa was surprised he knew her name, but he'd known the doorman's name too. It improved her opinion of him.

Alice swiveled her hips as she started scanning the alcohol. "Great now; it's always nice to see you."

Teresa pulled her chin back. "You can't be serious—she's hitting on you? What is she… eighteen?"

Patrick spoke to her out of the side of his mouth. "Twenty."

"Oh, well that's appropriate." Teresa moved past the check stand and waited for him to pay. "You're practically the same age. What are you, thirty-four?"

He whipped his gaze to her, his card flipping out and hitting Alice in the face. "I'm twenty-eight!"

Alice giggled a nervous kind of giggle as she swiped his card. "Oh, I don't need your ID."

"Smooth," Teresa said. "Real smooth."

He took his card back, with a sheepish grin. "Sorry."

"No worries." Alice twirled a strand of her long brown hair around a finger. "Come back soon, Mr. Jane."

He gathered the three paper bags Alice had put his stuff in. Somehow he managed it, but just barely.

"Unbelievable." Teresa followed after him.

"Go away." They neared the exit where a stand with bouquets of flowers stood.

"I'm not leaving until you help me."

"You're not real."

Her ire rose to boiling levels as they reached the stand. Throwing a fist at a protruding bouquet of sunflowers, she yelled, "I am!" Her hand made contact, and the bouquet went flying past him.

They both froze.

She sucked in a gasp.

He nearly dropped one of his sacks. "Did you do that?"

She placed her hands over her mouth.

Alice came running.

Patrick dragged his gaze from her to the young cashier. "I'm sorry, I don't—"

Picking up the flowers, Alice batted her lashes at him. "I saw the whole thing, you weren't anywhere near it. It must have been the wind."

But it wasn't, it was her. She'd moved those flowers. She'd hit them with all the fury in her and they'd soared. She lowered her hands.

"Thank you," Patrick said, and rushed from the store.

Teresa chased after him. "Did you see that?" That was so cool! Who knew ghosts could do that? She certainly had had no clue. She couldn't remember the priest ever talking about it in mass. In fact, she couldn't remember Father Daniels ever talking about ghosts period. The afterlife yes, but ghosts no. This was all new territory for her. She laughed. "I'm like Patrick Swayze from that one movie where he's a ghost."

" _Ghost."_ His voice was in barely a whisper and she couldn't tell if he was providing her the name of the movie or calling her one. She became even more uncertain when she glanced over at him. His face was pale as a… well her. His cheeks, which had been a healthy rosy color this morning, were now a sickly gray.

"Oh, right." She chuckled.

He knew. He knew she was real. It was the only thing that could explain his sudden change in countenance. He wasn't even arguing with her anymore. "You believe me, don't you? That I'm here?"

Right before they reached his building, he looked at her and gave a slight nod.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Patrick yanked open his refrigerator and unloaded his paper bag of its cans Bloody Mary, then slammed the door.

"If you believe I'm real," the woman had followed him into the kitchen, "then why won't you help me?"

He closed his eyes and yanked the door open again. It was too early for a philosophical debate. "Because I don't want to." He grabbed one of the cans and popped it open. Tomato juice sprayed onto his hand and he licked it off.

"You don't want to." Her hands were on her hips and her volume increased as she continued to speak. "Because you don't want to?"

He turned from her and headed to his room with her in tow. "Yes."

"What are you, in kindergarten?"

He rolled his eyes and titled the can back, finishing it off. "How'd you guess?" Taking one step into his on suite bathroom, he crunched the can and chucked it into the small bin by his sink.

She took a deep breath. "Well, I'm not going anywhere. I could follow you around for days, weeks, months. I've got nothing else to do and lots of time on my hands."

 _Months?_ He swallowed thick, and felt suddenly exhausted. He had no idea how hauntings worked, but from what he gathered of lore on the subject, she could be telling the truth.

Once when he'd been a teenager, he'd read several books on the occult—some of which had been on hauntings. His father had insisted so that he would better be able to fake psychic. From what he remembered, ghosts could stick around for a long time, forever even, if their unfinished business wasn't attended to.

Not that it mattered. He had no intention of helping her. For years he'd been suffering over the loss of his wife and now this ghost just shows up? Demanding help? And why not Angela? This was some kind of cosmic joke and he wasn't playing along.

Shedding his button-up, he headed for his bed.

"What are you doing?"

Coming up with a temporary solution to get rid of her while he thought of something more permanent. He reached for the button on his trousers, and she hastily turned her back on him. "Getting nude."

"Oh, come on! You don't really think that's going to work long term do you?"

Once down to his boxers, he flopped on his bed. She hadn't left yet. "You want kindergarten? You got it." He started singing one-hundred bottles of beer on the wall.

She spun back to face him, head tilted, mouth slightly agape. "I have three brothers, you _prick_. You don't honestly think this is going to work do you?"

He gave her a wide grin and winked. There was only one way to find out, so he increased his volume. He could do this for days if he had to. Days. And frankly, he just didn't think she had it in her to outlast him.

#

Patrick had a lot of regrets in his life. He regretted that he didn't have a relationship with his mother, that he had one—no matter how insignificant—with his father, he regretted having stayed with the carnival for as long as he had, and that he'd not been able to save his wife's life, he even occasionally regretted pretending to be a psychic and fooling people into believing he could see their deceased love ones, though the money he'd made helped ease his conscience there.

Lying on his bed in his underwear, staring at the ceiling, he could hardly believe that of everything in his life he regretted that seeing an actual ghost would be one of those things. Especially when after two hours of singing one hundred bottles of beer on the wall, she'd joined in. Of course, he'd been amused for a whole two seconds before he'd given it up. It was no fun if she played along.

But seeing a ghost, a real one. There were so many layers to it—he didn't know where to start. Now he could be a real psychic and stop lying to people if he wanted, now he knew that life continued after death, and most importantly that his wife was somewhere other than in a plot at St. Mary's cemetery. He should find comfort in it, but he didn't.

His own personal crucible burst through his bedroom wall, hands on her hips, her sharp golden glare piercing through to his psyche.

"All right, it's been two days," she snapped. "I've had enough."

"I told you I was naked," he tried to reply just as testily, but found he didn't have it in him. The only thing keeping the woman at bay was the threat of seeing him naked. So much for that.

"Please, I'm a police officer. I've seen worse than… you." She signaled to the length of his body with a quick gesture of her hand. The expression on her face, her down turned lips and scrunched up nose, suggested she'd never seen anything more disgusting.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wanted to argue that he was a catch, that no woman had ever complained before, but the argument died in a swirl of self-hatred and guilt. Hadn't he just spent the last two days drinking himself silly? Wasn't he currently lying amid dozens of cans and an empty bottle of Vodka?

"Go away." He rolled onto his side, turning his back to her.

"I'm not going anywhere. I gave you time. The realization that I'm real and that you can see me was I shock, I know, but enough is enough." She came to the end of the bed. "Look at you. Your sheets are stained, you're surrounded by trash, and I can't smell you, but I'd be willing to bet if I could that you'd stink. It's time to snap out of it. I need your help."

"And I told you I'm not helping you, so get lost." He ignored the twinge of guilt he felt at turning her away. From all the other guilt he endured, she was barely a blip on his radar.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she pinched the bridge of her nose. He found the gesture fascinating. She was a ghost; could ghosts get headaches? More than likely it was something she did when she was alive and the habit followed her.

She glanced over at him, and he couldn't help but to let her hold eye contact. "You're the only one who can see me. Don't you understand? If I'm not with you, I might as well not exist. So, yeah, you're cranky and argumentative, and you can be downright rude, but I'll take that over being invisible every day. Like it or not, you're stuck with me."

 _Stuck. With her…_ He sat up. "Why you?" Why not his wife? Why did this little slip of a creature get to be here when his lovely girl was somewhere else? Why was he saddled with someone _not_ his wife? And if his wife was still somewhere, then why not here, with him?

Despite his lack of clothing, and the cooler spring weather outside, the room suddenly felt stuffy. Too warm to endure. It made breathing difficult.

Her brows drew together creating a slight pinch line between them. "What do you mean?"

"Why you? Why not—" His wife was none of her business.

She quirked a brow at him, her expression softening.

He swallowed the lump in his throat. "Why are you the only one I can see? And why can't anyone else see you?"

"Great questions." The snark in her voice was unmistakable.

He stood and went to the bathroom. When he was almost to the door, she followed, so when he was in the bathroom and out of her sight, he shed his boxers and tossed them out the door before she could come in and closed the door.

"Oh, yuck," she called out, but didn't pass through.

He hopped in the shower, leaving the water cold, and cleaned himself up. Why not his wife? Of all the ghosts that must be out there, why not his wife?

#

Teresa sat on the bed, fuming. She supposed he could actually be in there showering, but he could just as likely be lying on the floor again, trying to drown out her voice. She closed her eyes and shook her head. There were so many things she hadn't done that she'd wanted to before she died. So many experiences she'd never had. But when it came down to it, she decided if she had unfinished business, it had to be her brothers. There was nothing more important to her than them. It was the only logical reason why she'd still be here.

And finding someone who could see her, it had felt like kismet for a whole five minutes. Now she was starting to wonder if this wasn't purgatory. Her punishment for something. She thought she'd lived a good life, at very least she'd been faithful.

The water turned off, and Patrick started whistling Beethoven's 5th Symphony. She's was pretty sure he was mocking her.

Several minutes later, the bathroom door flung open and out stepped the pebble in her shoe. She sat bolt upright, startled by his exit. He strode across the room into his walk-in closet in only a towel, and though she'd just seen him in his boxers and a t-shirt, she averted her eyes. Wow, he was good looking, with his hair wet and slicked back and his face freshly shaved.

It wasn't long before he exited the closet fully dressed in black dress pants with a white button-up shirt and a gray vest.

She shook her head to get rid of the haze there and stood. "Where are you going?"

"To see a friend." He rolled his sleeves to his elbows as he passed her.

She placed her hands on her hips. "Why?"

He turned on her, stopping only inches away. "Why not?"

"Well, I…" She blinked. "I need…"

He stared down at her, his eyes now crystal clear. The shower had done him good, in more ways than one. "Help?"

"Yes." She lifted her chin. "I have unfinished business, why else would I be here?" She shoved aside the thoughts she'd had only moments before he'd come out of the bathroom that this was some kind of punishment. It had also briefly crossed her mind weeks ago that if she was still here, she could solve her murder. She'd given that idea up quickly, though. She couldn't leave this area, and at the time no one could see her.

"So, what is it?"

"What's what?"

"Your unfinished business?" He smiled slightly, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling just a little. He was toying with her.

"My brothers. I've basically been taking care of them all since they were little. My youngest brother, James, lives with me and isn't even out of high school yet. I need to know they're all right." Then, she could move on.

"Why am I the only one who can see you?"

She wanted to take a step back, his proximity and the intensity of his stare made her a little nervous. It was ridiculous. It wasn't like he could touch her or would even if he could. "I don't know."

"Have we ever met before?"

She shook her head. "Not that I can recall." But what if she could touch him? She had knocked those flowers over the other day.

"Have you seen or spoken to any other ghosts?"

"No."

"Why not?" He almost sounded aggressive now.

"I don't know," she replied with as much force as she could muster.

"What _do_ you know?" He held eye contact without blinking. "Because as far as I can tell, you know very little."

She felt a little zap of fury shoot through her, not unlike how she felt when she'd been at the store with him. She grabbed onto that feeling, letting it increase inside her.

"I don't want you here. I don't want to help you. I don't want anything to do with you."

She reached out and shoved him. Of course it didn't work, and not only did her hand go right through, she'd done it with such force that _she_ fell right through him and dropped in a heap.

After a dazed moment, she glanced up at him.

He stood in the exact spot where he'd been when she tried to push him, except his back was now stiffer than a board. He slowly turned and stared down at her, his jaw hanging slightly agape. "What did you do?"

She opened her mouth to speak, but found the words stuck in her throat. "I didn't… I don't." She shook her head and swallowed. "I didn't… You felt that, didn't you?"

His eyes went wide. "I have to get out of here." He rushed from the room, and not seconds later, the front door slammed close.

Standing on wobbly knees, Teresa took several deep breaths. She'd been a ghost for a month already and still hadn't figured out the logistics of how all this spirit stuff worked. Logically, she knew her knees weren't really wobbly, and that she wasn't really sucking in air, she didn't have knees anymore or lungs. Just a spirit body.

She supposed some of it was just out of habit, like pinching her nose. The weak knees weren't exactly how it felt to have weak knees when she had her body, just as the nausea she felt when she passed through someone didn't quite feel like nausea. It was something all together different though she didn't have the words to describe it.

Of course, the head to toe tingling—that was always the same, and seemed to have pretty much the same effect on everyone she'd passed through. Not that she made a habit of it. It'd only happened twice before and she swore never again. It was too disconcerting.

She stood staring at the closed door and knowing she needed to follow, but moving through him had taken it out of her. She'd known it would because people had walked through her on several occasions, until she's trained herself to get out of their way.

She wondered what he'd felt. If the look on his face was anything to go by, it wasn't good. If it felt like a violation to her, it surely must have felt that way to him. What if he never came back here? Would she just be stuck here forever? She had to stop him before he went out of her boundary.

Stealing herself, she rushed around the couch and through the door. She ran to the stairs and took them two at a time all the way down. He was no longer in the front lobby, but outside hailing a cab. He got in before she reached him and pulled the door closed.

Making a snap decision, she jumped in the cab next to him. She had a block before she hit the barrier. One block before she was whipped back at the speed of twenty-five miles per hour.

He spoke to her under his breath so the cabbie wouldn't hear him. "Stop following me."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that. Please, don't leave." Thirty feet.

"I'm not staying."

Twenty feet. "The way I see it, the only way you'll get answers is by helping me. And it's for sure the only way you'll get rid of me." Ten feet. "Come on, crazy or not, you have to admit that's logical."

Eight feet, seven, six…

"None of this is logical." He raked a hand through his golden waves.

She closed her eyes and cringed. Three. Two. One.

Nothing happened. She opened one eye. The cab was still moving. In fact, it was now well past the barrier. "I'm still here." She laughed.

"Oh, joy," he said.

She turned in her seat and watched the apartment building she'd been attached to for weeks disappear behind her. "I'm out." She squealed and rubbed her hands together. "You have no idea how liberating that is!"

He leaned away from her. "I'm sure you'll enlighten me."

She sucked in a breath as an unwelcome thought struck her. "Have you left your neighborhood in the last month?"

He glared at her but didn't answer.

"Tell me," she demanded.

He leaned forward and rested a hand on the driver's back seat. "Driver, could you hurry?"

The driver nodded. "Sure thing."

She leaned back and thought about the shape of his apartment—the take out boxes and messy space. He hadn't, he hadn't gone anywhere. He'd been hanging out in and around his apartment only. She'd be willing to bet that the diner on the corner of his block was the farthest he'd been. That was why the boundary had changed by a building or two, but never more. She wasn't tied to his apartment building.

"I'm tied to you."

The muscles in his jaw clenched. "I thought we already established that."

She turned to him. "No, you don't understand. I can't get more than a block away from you. Whatever is keeping me here, is _literally_ keeping me with you."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

The one story art studio that Zak owned had once been nothing but concrete walls and florescent lights. Now it had big windows, studio lighting, and paintings done by up-and-coming artists from all over California. At least, the ones in the front studio; the paintings at the back of the house came from questionable origins all over the world. Zak spent much of his time selling art from both ends of his studio.

It was Tuesday now, so Patrick knew he'd be here as Tuesday nights were one of his best nights for sales. Striding through the double glass doors, Patrick made a beeline for the back of the studio while keeping an eye out for his friend in the crowd of wandering patrons. When he didn't spot him, he made his way through a door at the back of the studio reading, "Employees Only."

"What are we doing here?" Teresa hissed, ever on his tail.

"Zak," Patrick called as he made his way down the hall to a back area meant for storage with a large shipping dock for trucks.

"Patrick," Zak called out. "Is that you?"

Coming in to the storage area, Patrick stopped. Several containers were packed against the walls, the truck dock was open letting in a cool breeze, and on the flat screen in the corner played the old movie _Heart and Souls_. That was a little too on point for Patrick's liking. A large painting sat on an easel Zak had set up next to a long table with canvases, paints, brushes, and other such things.

Zak stood from his stool in front of the painting, and crossed to him—his black suit and purple button up, with matching purple socks, making him look as sharp and eccentric as ever. "It is you. I can hardly believe it. When was the last time you got out, a month ago? Month and a half?"

"I knew it." Teresa crossed her arms.

Zak took Patrick's lapels and then brushed the shoulders of his suit coat. "You look good. I was starting to think you didn't have any nice clothes… or clean ones for that matter."

Teresa chuckled. "I like him."

He narrowed his eyes at her annoying, smirking face, then shoved Zak's hands off.

"Can you lay off on the insults, please," Patrick stepped past him, and stared at the large painting that depicted a roman scene with party goers in togas feeding one another grapes, drinking, partying, and revealing. Their smug, happy faces mocked him—like they knew. "I've had a hard day, a hard several days in fact."

"What's wrong?" Zak asked.

He turned to his friend and decided there was no point beating about the bush. "I'm being haunted."

Zak took a step back. "Pardon me?"

"Haunted, you know, by a ghost."

"Oh, yeah," Teresa rolled her eyes. "This is gonna go over well."

Zak scrunched his blond brow in thought. "Angela?"

Patrick's gaze flew to Teresa. "No. It's some little brunette, know it all, with a pension for harassing me."

"Is it April Fools?" Zak pointed at himself. "This is me, you're talking to, not some dupe. You know that right?

"I'm serious." Patrick signaled to Teresa with both hands. "She's right there."

Zak's gaze went to where she was standing, and he scrunched his face. "How much have you been drinking?"

"I haven't!"

"Liar," Teresa said.

Patrick rubbed the back of his neck. "At least, not since last night."

Zak narrowed his eyes. "I'm sorry, but this is too strange. Without proof…"

Patrick turned to Teresa. "Can you do what you did with the flowers again?"

She folded her arms and lifted her chin. "Nope. You're the physic, show me how it's done, oh great Nostradamus."

Zak gave a choked laugh. "What's she saying?"

Patrick narrowed his eyes. "She says you're attractive."

Teresa stepped toward him. "I did not, why would you say that?"

"She did?" Zak stood a little taller. "Your hallucination has good taste."

"She's not a hallucination. Come on, think about it. Would I ever say you were attractive?"

Zak scratched his chin. "No, probably not."

"I can't believe you're lying to get him to believe you," Teresa said.

Patrick lifted his hands, palms up. "I can't believe you can't believe it. My day job?"

She pulled her chin back. "How do you live with yourself?"

Patrick lifted a hand to her. "In solitary. I like being alone. Why don't you get that?"

Zak tugged on his lapels. "What does she look like?"

"What does that have to do with anything?" Patrick and Teresa snapped in unison. They stared at each other, and she dropped her gaze. Patrick glanced over at his friend, at his grin and the twinkle in his eye. Zak still didn't believe anything Patrick was saying, he was just mocking him. Fortunately he'd set Patrick up perfectly to prove it.

Patrick sized her up and turned to his friend. "She's a little pert for my taste, actually."

Teresa scoffed. "Oh, jeez."

"You might like her though; she kind of reminds me of that gal you dated before you met Valerie."

"Florence?" Zak placed his finger on the end of his nose and pushed it up. "With the upturned nose?"

"Exactly." Patrick smiled.

"I don't have a nose like that." Teresa placed her hands on her hips.

"Yes, that one wasn't the most attractive girl I ever dated," Zak said, "but she had a great personality."

Patrick lifted a hand. "You took the words right out of my mouth."

"All right, that's enough," Teresa said.

Zak laughed. "Good point."

"Good schnauzer." Patrick snorted like a pig, and both men busted up. He then sneaked a glance at Teresa. Her jaw was clenched, and he thought any moment steam might come from her ears.

"Good thing I didn't get saddled with that one."

Patrick pointed to Teresa. "Or this one."

Zak lifted his hands. "Indeed."

Teresa took the four steps she needed to reach him and smacked him upside the head.

"Ouch!" Patrick flinched forward.

Zak was chortling too much to notice. She continued her forward motion with her hand up and got Zak in the forehead.

He fell back a couple steps, hand going to his head as his eyes bulged. "What in tarnation was that?"

Patrick signaled to Teresa again, lifting his hands up and down. "Teresa!"

"She's real. It's real." He stumbled back to his stool and sat down.

Teresa fisted her hands on her hips. "'It?' Is _he_ for real?"

"Yes, to both of you." He looked at Teresa. "Thank you for that by the way. He never would've believed me otherwise."

She took a step toward him and he took a quick step back.

She half scoffed, half laughed. "You tricked me."

Patrick lifted his hand and made a space about an inch apart with his thumb and forefinger.

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and faced him. "Well played."

Warmth spread through his chest and he grinned at her. He shrugged.

Meanwhile, Zak was staring between Patrick and where he thought Teresa stood. "Who is she?"

Patrick faced his friend again. "I don't know… Teresa Lisbon. She says she's a cop."

Pulling his cell from his pocket, Zak flipped it in the air and caught it with his opposite hand. "If she's real, she should be in the news."

Teresa crossed her arms. "He's handling this remarkably well, considering."

Zak scrolled for a few minutes and waved Patrick over. "Is this her?"

Patrick looked at the picture of Teresa along with the headline saying she'd been shot and killed a month ago. "That's her!" He breathed in deep, relief overcoming him. The final proof he needed to cement in his mind she was real and he wasn't crazy.

Teresa came closer and hunched over Zak's other shoulder.

"She's really pretty," Zak said. "Her nose is nice."

"Thank you," she said sounding exasperated.

Patrick leaned closer. "I know. She is. What's the article say?"

Teresa cleared her throat.

"Not much." Zak scrolled down and paused on something, his eyes widening just a little as if he were surprised, then moved on. After a moment he turned his phone to Patrick. "Wow, look at her."

Patrick leaned in again. "Teresa?"

"No, the Assistant DA. She's over this case. Stephanie Striker. Good looking woman," Zak said.

On Zak's phone was a picture of the woman standing in front of the Capitol building. Her blond hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, and she had a little grin on her face.

"Ms. Striker said, 'We will find out who was responsible and we'll build a case until they're dead to rights. They don't know it yet, whoever did this, but this was the biggest mistake of their lives.' Good looking and fierce—just your type."

Teresa stepped away.

Patrick grimaced a little. Striker wasn't definitely not his type. She had a hardness about her that didn't sit well with him. Maybe that was just a side effect of the job, but that said, Teresa worked in the justice field and wasn't hard at all. "I need your help."

Zak spread his arms. "You know how crazy this sounds, right?"

"And you know I'm telling the truth."

"Yes. I do." Zak rubbed his forehead. "What do you want me to do?"

"Help me get rid of her," Patrick said.

Teresa rolled her eyes. She did that a lot too. "I'm right here."

"What have you tried?" Zak put his phone in his pocket.

"Asking her to leave, telling her to leave, singing _A Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall_ for two hours—"

"Ooo," Zak cringed and pulled back. "And that didn't work?"

"No," Patrick narrowed his eyes at her. "She sang along."

Zak laughed and covered his mouth with his hand for a second. "That's funny."

It had been, actually. Not that he'd admit it—ever. "I also hid in my bathroom, tried to drown her out with other noises, and walked around in my underwear."

"And have you tried taking care of her unfinished business?" Zak rested his hands on his hips.

"Thank you," Teresa said. "My point exactly."

Patrick groaned. "I don't want to help. I want to be left alone."

"Right," Zak nodded. "Because being alone has made you such a joy. Listen, my friend, she came to you. It's obvious you're supposed to help her, and I don't think she's going anywhere until you do."

Patrick paced the concrete floor in front of Zak. Teresa stood silently behind his friend, nodding in agreement.

Zak shrugged. "And who knows, maybe if you help her, she can put you in contact with Angela."

Patrick turned to his friend. "No. She has nothing to do with this, and I don't want her to."

Teresa stepped out from behind Zak. "Who's Angela?"

"She's none of your business, that's who," Patrick said.

Zak cleared his throat. "She's Patrick's late wife. She passed a little more than two years ago."

Patrick made eye contact with Teresa.

She blinked. "What? Why didn't you tell me? I could—"

He lifted a hand in a stop motion. "No. You go anywhere near her and I will never help you. Do you understand? Never." At that he turned his back on them and marched out.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

The taxi stopped out front a bar called The Giant Head. Teresa frowned as Patrick paid the driver and got out. She followed as quickly as she could, but he was enough taller than her and walking fast enough that she had to take two steps for every one of his. The name of the club sounded familiar, but it'd be hard to forget had it been mentioned in everyday conversation, so she didn't give it much thought

She caught up with him as he was allowed past the velvet rope, past the line, and into the club.

"Patrick, do you really think you should be drinking?" She yelled over the pounding music. People crowded in, making it nearly impossible to keep some from going right through her. Each time, nausea would hit and retreat, like waves against the sand. After it happened three times, she fell in step behind him as they swerved through the mass of undulating bodies, using his larger frame as a shield.

He ignored her just as he had on the cab ride over. She couldn't really blame him. From having grown up with an alcoholic, she could never condone drinking and shutting yourself off from the world as a way to deal with death. Her dad had done that and had eventually ended his own life. But, now she understood Patrick more. He had suffered a real tragedy, and the last thing she wanted to do was drudge up those feelings of loss.

He made his way down the hall to a door with several locks on it and knocked.

The door swung open, and Patrick went in. She followed, staying close by his side. Three men sat at a round table with green felt on it, one sat with his back to the door and was smoking a cigar, wisps of smoke hung in the air like clouds on a foggy day. The other two men each had respectably sized piles of chips. The taller and lankier of the two men, grabbed two black chips, and tossed them in the middle of the table below a low hung light, the only light in the entire room.

She got a closer look and gasped. "Thousand dollar chips, what the hell?" Just how wealthy was Patrick?

Patrick took a seat and the men nodded to him.

"Yeah, I'm not sure replacing one vice for another is a great idea," she said. "You shouldn't be here, Patrick. We should go."

The one smoking the cigar leaned forward into the light showcasing an ugly thick mustache—her brothers would've called it a Flavor savor. _Yuck._

"How good to see you. After last time, I wasn't sure you'd ever come back." The man reached to his right hand ring finger and twisted a gold band there.

Teresa furrowed her brow and glanced down at Patrick's ring finger—empty aside from a little tan line where a ring used to be. Her eyes bulged, and she pointed. "Is that your ring?"

His jaw clenched, the muscles there tightening.

"You bet your ring?" How could he do that? Was he really that unhinged?

Opening his wallet, Patrick produced a wad of cash. "In case you've forgotten, DeAngelo, last time you told me not to come back."

 _DeAngelo?_ Why did that sound so familiar too?

Flavor savor lifted his cigar and signaled to Patrick. "I said not to come back until you'd pulled yourself together. You look like your old self again."

Teresa glanced down at him. Sure, he looked better, much better, than he had the last three days they'd been together. A shower, a clean change of clothes, and getting out had been just what the doctor ordered. She'd even say he looked handsome, but he was also upset and falling back into bad habits. She couldn't remember how many times her dad had promised to get sober. The road Patrick was on was a slippery slope.

The dealer tossed Patrick his cards, along with five black chips, ten red and twenty blue. Had Patrick really had that much money on him while they'd been out and about? _Yikes._ One thing was certain, he'd planned on coming here when they'd left earlier.

"If you're here to win back your ring, you can forget it." Flavor Savor placed his cigar on a crystal ashtray. "I've grown quite fond of the thing. It's plain, humble appearance suits me."

Patrick picked up his cards and starting rearranging them. "What you mean to say is its hold over me pleases you."

The man chuckled. "Yes, that too." He chewed on the end of his cigar. "I am a man who likes power. What can I say?"

"Are we here to chat or play poker?" Patrick looked over his cards at Flavor Savor man, irritation evident in his tone. The man paused, seemingly caught off guard by Patrick's tone.

A moment later a small smile crossed Flavor Savor's face. "But of course. On with the game."

Teresa sucked in a deep breath and dropped her head in her hand. This was not going to end well. She reached for her mother's cross, remembering it wasn't there anymore too late to stop herself. Feeling her hair tickle at the back of her neck, she glanced down to find Patrick staring at her, at her hand as she lowered it.

He furrowed his brow and turned away.

He really was going to play. _Blast him._

#

Patrick was back on his A-game. An hour in and he'd won back every penny he's lost a month ago—minus his wedding ring. The two other players both politely withdrew thirty minutes in, recognizing that Patrick not only wasn't going to lose, but also that it seemed he couldn't. That left the game down to him and DeAngelo.

DeAngelo hadn't been expecting this game. He'd been expecting, like every other time Patrick had played over the last six months, to do well. And if he were counting on Patrick to play as he had last time, he had to be especially sore. He tried to hide it, but Patrick could see. He'd long since placed his Cuban cigar in the ashtray without putting it out and had let the fifty-dollar-a-piece vice burn down. Aside from that, the man's jaw was clenched, when only an hour before it'd been loose. And finally, DeAngelo gripped his cards so tight the tips of his fingers turned white.

"I got to say, I didn't expect you to do this well." Teresa stood behind him. She'd spent half the night pacing the floor behind him, but after his second win, she'd started paying close attention. "Are you cheating?"

He glanced up at her and gave her an oh-please look, which made her smile, and him glad. His cocky confidence did often appeal to women. Even Teresa was impressed, which for some reason made him proud. She seemed like she might be a difficult person to please. He was starting to rethink that, however. In fact, he was starting to rethink most of his first impressions of her. She did not fit easily into any mold.

That fact alone that she was a cop was something special. Of course he'd seen female cops before, but not often. And he'd be willing to bet that she was excellent at her job. Her stick-to-it-ness alone had to be a good thing career wise.

DeAngelo took two cards from the dealer and pursed his lips. That was his tell for when his hand was exactly what he'd hoped for or better. Patrick took one card—not that he needed it. He had four of a kind and the only hand that could beat that, DeAngelo didn't have. Patrick knew because for the first time in months that he'd come here, he was sober, and when he was sober, his mind automatically counted cards. Not that he'd stop it if he could. Especially not now.

Grabbing five black chips from his rapidly declining pile, DeAngelo tossed them to the center of the table, and rubbed his fingers over his mustache. "I raise five thousand."

Patrick glanced down at his cards, then across to DeAngelo and then away. He'd won this game, but what he wanted was his ring. DeAngelo wasn't betting it, so Patrick had to make the man confidant enough to play recklessly. He needed to up the stakes. After a moment, he grabbed five black chips of his own. He then threw in two more. "I see your five thousand and raise two thousand more."

DeAngelo's smile dropped just slightly, his eyes narrowing as he appraised Patrick. It wasn't two seconds later that he took the two remaining chips he had, both only worth five hundred, and threw them into the pot. "You must have a good hand," DeAngelo said, "if you're betting more than I have. The good news is this is my club. I always have extra money somewhere."

He snapped his fingers, and a guy who'd been standing by the door, emerged from the shadows. He left the room.

"Wait, this guy owns Big Head?" Teresa asked.

Without being too obvious about it, he threw a quick glance in her direction.

She blinked those thick lashes rapidly as she thought. "Is his first name Louis?"

Patrick nodded once, curious about how she knew. He didn't know a lot about the man. He did know that he owned this club, that he was an ego maniac, and a criminal of some sort. Patrick also knew that the guy was dangerous, but he hadn't worried about that because he'd never given the guy reason to be mad at him. Even when Patrick had started playing here, even when he'd done well, he'd always kept his winnings to a minimum so as not to attract too much attention.

"Louis DeAngelo?" She repeated.

Patrick kept his gaze on the man grinning in front of him.

She pointed at DeAngelo. "He's in charge of one of the top crime syndicates in Sacramento. We've never been able to do anything to him, despite having ample evidence, because he has diplomatic immunity. He could kill you right now, and there would be nothing anyone could do about it."

The man DeAngelo had sent out returned with a stack of money. DeAngelo threw it out on to the table without looking at it. "That should cover it."

"Who's the confident one now?" Patrick asked.

DeAngelo smiled. "I call."

"I don't like this, Patrick." Teresa planted herself at his side.

The man who'd brought the money stood behind DeAngelo, his hands clasped in front of him. Patrick didn't find that at all encouraging. In all the times he'd played here, he'd never sent for cash, had never had a man standing behind him like that before. Something felt off.

Teresa reached down to him, stopping her fingers a hair's breadth away from his hand. And he felt it like a shock of electricity, only without the pain. He glanced up at her, at the little line that had formed between her brows and the tight line of her lips.

She pulled her fingers back. "Be careful. Please."

Patrick laid out his cards—four fives—and waited.

DeAngelo's smug grin fell. "You cheated. You must have cheated."

Patrick pointed to himself and furrowed his brow. "Do you think I have a death wish? Come on, DeAngelo. I'm not stupid enough to cheat. All I want is my ring. You can keep your money. The ring is worth a fraction of what's in the pot."

DeAngelo's gaze went from the pot in the center of the table to the ring on his right hand ring finger. He splayed his hand in front of him, staring at the ring, then slowly twisted the thing off and tossed it across to Patrick.

Patrick picked it up and almost slid it on before changing his mind and placing it in his vest pocket. He grabbed the stack of bills sitting directly in front of him. There was no point in trying to take the chips; he wasn't leaving here with any of their money. In fact, judging by the scowl on DeAngelo's face, he was fairly certain he'd be lucky if he got out of here with his life.

He stood and nodded to DeAngelo. "Good game."

He made his way around the table, and then just before he turned to go to the door, he tossed the bills into the face of the man standing behind DeAngelo. The bills fluttered apart in a big green poof and Patrick sprinted for the door.

He was halfway down the hall to the club when a bullet pierced the wall to the right of him. Four more paces and he was out of the hall. The club patrons started screaming and running around like ants in an ant farm. Patrick ducked before plunging into the hysteria of the crowd and pushing his way through.

Then Teresa was there, at his side. "Not the front door," she directed. "Too many people trying to get out there. Try the exit back by the bathrooms."

Patrick deviated courses and ran for the other exit. She was right, there weren't as many people trying to get out here. He pushed through the door as another shot sounded from behind. He made for an alley around the side.

"He's coming," she warned him.

Patrick ducked behind a dumpster while Teresa stood watch.

"No, it's not going to work," she said.

"What's not going to work," he whispered back.

"Shhhhh!" She put her fingers to her lips. "You're going to have to get under the dumpster."

"What?" The ground was wet, and there was a large pile of mysterious goo by one of the wheels. "I'm not going under there." Besides, he was pretty sure he wouldn't fit even if he wanted to.

She faced him. "You either go under the dumpster or in it after he shoots you; it's your choice."

He huffed, scooted between the back of the dumpster and the wall, and slid through the wetness and muck, until he was totally concealed. One of his cheeks was pressed against the back of the dumpster the other against the gooey pavement. Patrick held his breath people ran by screaming and shouting. He waited several minutes before saying anything. He plugged his nose against the putrid smell and tried to ignore the wetness seeping through his clothes. "Is it clear?"

Teresa said nothing.

He tried again. "Teresa?"

"Yeah, you're good."

He shimmied out and stood. Glancing down at his now sullied clothes, he sighed. "This was my favorite suit."

Giving him a once over, she concealed a grin by letting her hair fall in her face. "Come on. We need to get out of here before they decide to do another sweep."

They ran to the end of the building and turned the corner, coming face to face with the man with the gun. Patrick flinched to the side out of instinct. Teresa pulled her fist back and punched the man square in the nose. The punch landed, her hand made contact, like it had when she'd hit the flowers in the market and his and Zak's foreheads. The man went cross eyed before dropping like a sack of turnips.

Patrick blinked.

"Did you see that?" she stared at her hand. "I'm starting to get good at that."

"Did you just save my life?" Patrick said at the same time Teresa said, "Save your life?"

She glanced at him and grinned. "Yeah, I did. Now let's get out of here."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

The moment they arrived back at his apartment, Patrick started shedding his clothes. He dumped his vest and shirt inside his bedroom door and shut it behind him before discarding what remained.

"We should've taken his gun," Teresa mumbled from the other side of his door. She'd already expressed the same regret when they'd first gotten in the cab home.

"He'd just get another one, and you know it." Patrick was inclined to believe that DeAngelo's men rotated through guns as quickly as DeAngelo did through men.

Once out of his soiled clothes, Patrick retrieved his ring from his vest pocket, and headed for the bathroom. He had mystery goo in his hair and smeared all over his face a neck. For some reason he found it concerning that the malodorous matter was slightly sweet in its stench. That was all kinds of wrong.

"No, I know. You're right," she said. What she'd really wanted to do was arrest the man, but while she'd been able to land that punch, making an arrest as a ghost was an entirely different matter.

"I have to take a shower," he yelled out to her. "I'll be a minute." He stopped at the vanity above his sink, opening it. The cool metal of his ring, felt so familiar against his skin, but it'd been defiled by DeAngelo. He set it on one of the shelves and decided to polish it when this was all over.

"Take your time," Teresa said. "You were almost shot tonight. I think you deserve a long shower."

He smiled, then thought of the irony of that statement. She'd been shot, she was dead, and she'd just saved him from a similar fate. Turning on the hot water, he stepped under its spray and let it run over his head and down his back.

Patrick had known that DeAngelo was dangerous, had known that since he'd started playing there, and he hadn't cared. He'd almost lost his life tonight because he'd let his guard down. For months he'd been playing this guy, rattling him to the point that he saw Patrick's ring as trophy enough to kill him over. His old self would never have gone that far. Not to say he wouldn't have pushed some buttons—that was just him. But he didn't have a death wish. Did he?

A cold shiver ran over him canceling out the hot water entirely for one brief yet intense moment. He didn't feel that way now. If anything, he felt… exhilarated. He hadn't seen his life flash before his eyes, but it was true what they said about near-death experiences. New lease on life, and yada yada yada.

Scrubbing the gunk out of his hair and off his body with a frenzied speed, he found himself needing company, wanting to be with someone even if that person was a ghost. And possibly especially this person despite the fact that she was a ghost.

Within minutes he was in blue flannel bottoms and t-shirt and out in his living room. Teresa sat on the end of his couch furthest from the pile of take out boxes with her eyes closed and her hand resting on the armrest. He didn't think she was sleeping. Did ghosts sleep?

He glanced around as an uncomfortable heat surrounded him. Aside from his couch, bed, and T.V., he had nothing else but trash in the apartment. This wasn't living. Had he really gotten so low that he'd reduced himself to this? His gaze strayed to Teresa again with her eyes shut and lips turned up slightly in the corners if you looked close enough.

He went straight into the kitchen and grabbed his bin, then came out and loaded the trash in.

"Feeling like a new man?" Teresa watched as he worked.

"You could say that." He threw in the last container and sat down on the couch facing her. "I know I haven't been overly enthusiastic about helping you. For whatever reason you're here… with me… I don't know, but I'll help you. I'm sorry I've been making this entire ordeal more difficult than it needs to be."

"Honestly, I can't blame you. It's got to be terrifying to have a ghost following you around and equally irritating having her demand that you help or else she'll never leave."

He returned her small smile with one of his own. "First thing tomorrow, we'll go find your brothers. I promise."

Not only did he want to find them, but needed to. He'd been wasting so much of his time, wasting it on unimportant and frivolous things. It was why he'd become a consultant with the FBI, he'd wanted to help, and his friend, Virgil Minnelli, had gone out of his way to get him on board. After Patrick signed all the paperwork, he'd suddenly felt it was tedious and exhausting. For a while he'd helped, but in the last little while, he found he just couldn't do it anymore.

His behavior was shameful.

All he wanted now was to do something good. To do something for someone other than himself.

#

Without a body, Teresa found it difficult to describe what with a body she would've called physical reactions. For instance, there had been times in her life where she'd literally worried herself sick. If she had a body, that's what she'd say now, but nausea wasn't quite the right word for how she felt. How could it be? She didn't even have a stomach. But as she listened to Patrick talk on speaker phone to his FBI contact, Virgil Minnelli, the word nausea was the one that came to mind.

Their taxi driver changed the channel on his radio from soft to classic rock. "Stairway to Heaven" came on and he started humming along. Teresa wanted to rip the radio from the dash. _Stairway to Heaven? Seriously?_

"What did you find?" Patrick asked.

Virgil Minnelli sounded like an older gentleman, maybe in his fifties or so, _and_ he sounded kind. "At some point, you're going to have to explain to me what this is about, Patrick."

"Sure thing," Patrick said, but to Teresa's ears it sounded dismissive. And by the deep sigh from the other end of the phone, she figured this Minnelli fellow heard the same thing she was.

"I'll hold my breath, shall I?" Minnelli asked.

"I wouldn't," Patrick returned. "So…?"

"I haven't been able to dig up a lot on Detective Lisbon—her record is closed. The only thing I've been able to find on her is what was in the news. I called her precinct earlier today and left a message with her supervisor. If I hear back, I'll let you know."

Patrick glanced at her, but she didn't look back. "That's not as helpful as I was hoping for."

"It wasn't meant to be," Minnelli said.

"Meaning?" Patrick shifted in his seat.

"Every article on her said the exact same thing, word for word, except for what the newspapers found to embellish the articles," Minnelli cleared his throat. "The media was fed the story."

Teresa sat back and thought for a second, her gaze landing on the fraying gray back seat. "They must still be investigating my death." That wasn't encouraging. She hated to think that the person who'd done this to her was still out there. She'd have to pray they caught him; there was nothing more she could do.

Minnelli spoke then, confirming her thought. "If I had to guess, they've set up a sting to find the people responsible for her death."

"How do we find out for sure?" Patrick asked.

"You can try talking to her boss, but I wouldn't hold my breath that you'll get anything out him. Unless of course I'm wrong and they're not running an operation," Minnelli said. "If that's the case, he should be willing to talk to you."

"Thanks Virgil. I'll call you later." Patrick hung up.

Reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose, the spot where pressure generally built when she was stressed or tired, Teresa wondered at the pain she felt there. It wasn't the same as having a headache, but it was still uncomfortable. _How much of pain is a spiritual thing and how much of it is attached to our bodies?_

This entire situation was like a horrible nightmare, one that she just couldn't wake up from. And to make it worse, she couldn't find her brothers. Anywhere. They'd spent the last four hours combing the city of all their usual haunts to no avail.

Patrick turned to her. "Are you all right?"

She peeked over at the blond man beside her and revised her last thought. Not all of it was a nightmare. In fact, since last night, Patrick had become bearable—more than bearable in fact. He'd been a downright saint.

"Yes, thank you," the cabbie said, glancing in his rear-view mirror. "How are you?"

They looked at the cabbie.

"I'm… good," Patrick said.

She chuckled, then felt a twist in her stomach, or that general area since she no longer had a stomach. "I don't understand what's going on. Why can't we find my brothers?"

Patrick had gotten up at the crack of dawn today, had gotten dressed, finished straightening what little there was to straighten in his apartment, and then he'd run to the grocery store and had purchased eggs, cheese, milk and hot chocolate. After making himself an omelet, and savoring his expensive tea, with a brand name she couldn't pronounce, they'd headed out to find her brothers and take care of her unfinished business.

They hadn't. And she was conflicted. She wanted to know where they were, but finding them meant passing on, which she wanted and didn't.

While she'd decided awhile ago that it wasn't important, she suddenly couldn't stop wondering about what'd happened to her—not knowing worried her even more now because she couldn't find her brothers.

Now, in the back of the cab, panic was all she could feel. "This is a nightmare."

Patrick reached for her, his hand stopping inches from her shoulder and hovering before he pulled it back. "It's going to be okay, we're going to find them."

Had whoever shot her, gone after them? Where her baby brothers lying dead in some ditch somewhere because she'd pissed some criminal off—at least enough to kill her? "I think I'm going to be sick."

Patrick took a deep breath. "You're not going to project slime on me, are you?"

She glared at him. She was definitely _not_ going to do that. The sickness she was feeling was not the same as when she'd had a body. There was no desire to vomit. What she felt was deeper, all encompassing, a dread that filled every inch of her. "This isn't Ghostbusters and you're not Bill Murray."

The cabbie wiggled in his seat and turned the volume down. "Sir?"

Patrick grinned at her and waved him off the cabbie. "No, it's nothing. Are we almost there?"

"Yes, another five minutes."

"Thank you." Patrick turned from him, paused, then leaned forward. "And don't mind me talking to myself back here. I'm running lines for a play."

The cabbie smiled wide exposing crooked teeth. "Really, which play?"

"Shakespeare." Patrick leaned back.

"A comedy or tragedy?" The cabbie asked.

Patrick furrowed his brow. "That's yet to be seen," he said under his breath, then to the cabbie, "Midsummer's Night Dream."

"I love that one."

Patrick blinked at him.

The dread Teresa felt momentarily fled at the ridiculousness of what just happened.

Patrick tilted his head. "A Shakespeare literate cabbie. That's… unexpected."

Teresa smiled and signaled with her hand for him to proceed. "Well, go ahead then."

He sat tall and waggled his brows as he thought for a second. "'Or if there was sympathy in…' luck," Patrick grinned, his gaze darting from her to the cabbie and back, "'war, death, or sickness did lay siege to it… let us teach our trial patience. It stands as an edict in destiny.'"

Teresa chuckled at his mangled Shakespeare. To be fair, she was pretty impressed. James's high school had put this play on last year, and he'd gotten a part in it, so she knew the story pretty well, having had to run lines with her baby brother. If it'd been any other of Shakespeare's plays, she would've been clueless.

Sure, Patrick had taken lines from two different characters _and_ he'd changed a word or two, but his point was made, and made in a way that had _made_ her smile. If he'd said to her "we've had some bad luck, but be patient, that's par for the course in these kinds of things," she would've been ticked. It would've sounded too much like "Calm down, it'll be fine." She hated being told to calm down. But what he'd just done had been funny and clever.

He winked at her.

"I don't think that's how the lines go," the cabbie said.

Teresa laughed out loud.

"Everyone's a critic," Patrick said.

A moment later her laughter subsided. She hadn't realized it until now how stressed she'd actually been. Since she'd awoken as a spirit, she'd been in work mode: figure out what's going on and fix it. She'd kept her emotions all bottled up, and until a moment ago, she realized she'd been on the verge of bawling her eyes out. And that was the last thing she wanted to do, especially in front of Patrick. The last thing he needed was an over-emotional spirit on his hands. Having a _spirit_ on his hands was more than enough.

She wiped at her tearless eyes as her mirth subsided. "Now what?"

"We talk to your boss and see what we can find out." He tapped his pointer finger against his lips and hummed lightly as he thought.

"What is it?" she asked.

He shook his head a little. "Nothing."

She didn't believe that for one second. She'd only known the man for a few days but in that time she'd discovered that his mind worked in mysterious ways. He'd absolutely thought of something, but she wouldn't push, not for now. Somehow, after he'd almost been shot last night, they'd formed a comfortable alliance. The last thing she wanted to do was upset that. She needed his help. More than she'd initially thought she did.

If her brothers really were missing, then crossing over was the least of her worries. Those boys were her first priority in life and death. In fact, she refused to cross over until she knew where they were and that they were safe. If she didn't look out for them, then who would?


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Teresa stood behind Patrick and groaned. This was such a nightmare.

"Who are you again?" Sergeant Bosco sat across his desk from Patrick, leaning back in his chair.

"Patrick Jane." Patrick crossed his legs and continued to flip through the manifest of evidence collected from the building where she'd been shot. It was a matter of public record so Bosco had grudgingly given him a copy to peruse.

"You said. But what is that to do with me?" Bosco asked. "Who are you?"

"Like I said, I'm friends with Detective Lisbon." He turned a page. "Lot of guns, huh?"

"Cartel, Patrick," Teresa said lacing it with as much sarcasm as she could.

He smiled at her.

"And what is it you do for a living?" Bosco asked.

Patrick glanced over the manifest. "A little of this and that. I'm currently on a leave of absence."

Bosco leaned forward, resting his interlaced hands on his metal desk. "Why?"

"Personal reasons." Patrick tapped his toe on the green linoleum floor.

"How is it you know Detective Lisbon again?" The muscles in Bosco's jaw tightened, and his face went a little red.

Teresa was used to her boss losing his temper, being gruff and overly grumpy in general, but there was more going on here. He was trying very hard to keep his cool, and thankfully, succeeding so far. That, however, didn't seem to be stopping him from treating this meeting like an interrogation. What on earth was going on here? Did Bosco know Patrick? Maybe he'd seen his psychic act on TV? Most the cops she knew didn't believe in psychics, Bosco being one of them, which could explain his overall chilliness toward the man.

Teresa's nerves spiked. Patrick hadn't said anything about his relationship with her when he'd first arrived. It'd didn't bode well that Bosco was going down this road. In fact, when they first arrived Patrick had asked after her at the front desk and had been immediately lead to Bosco's office. It hadn't been a full minute before Bosco had come barreling in. Why it hadn't occurred to her to talk with Patrick about what they'd tell her coworkers, she didn't know.

"Make something up." She couldn't just hit him, or move something and make him believe. He'd assume Patrick was up to something, that it was all an elaborate hoax.

Patrick interlaced his fingers and placed them on his knee mirroring Bosco, a gesture that her boss didn't fail to notice. "I didn't say."

Bosco narrowed his eyes then forced a tight smile. "Care to enlighten me?"

"Not really, no."

Teresa dropped her head to her hand. "Oh, for crying out loud."

Bosco leaned back again. "Are you always this—"

"Private? Yes."

"I was going to say secretive."

"He's not going to tell you anything." Teresa sighed and glanced over at Patrick. "We should go."

Patrick did one quick shake of his head. "I've been trying to find her brothers. It seems they've all gone missing. Do you know where they are?"

Bosco looked down. "I'm not their keeper. They probably went back to Chicago to be with family while they process their grief."

"Process? Their grief?" Patrick's eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

"Don't take it personally, Patrick," Teresa said and hoped he'd listen, but that hope fled when he shot her a quick side glare. "He's difficult—"

"You're lying," Bosco said.

"What?" Teresa and Patrick said at the same time.

"I know who you are, Patrick Jane, and you are not friends with Detective Lisbon. I know for certain that she never met you." Bosco crossed his arms. "I'm not sure what your angle is, but I will discover it and if I find that you've had anything to do with what happened to her, anymore than already, I'll arrest you myself."

Patrick sat up straight. "Anymore than already? What is that supposed to mean?"

"Get out of my office." Bosco jumped to his feet and pointed to his door.

Patrick stood. "Not until you tell me what you know about Teresa's brothers."

Teresa placed herself unwittingly between the two men. "Patrick, trust me, you do not want to get into a fight with him." Bosco had been a professional boxer when he was younger, and now, as a cop, he was often referred to as The Tank.

"Her brothers and their whereabouts are none of your concern." Bosco went to the door and opened it.

Patrick rolled back on his heels, and a slow smile spread over his face. "You know where they are, don't you?"

"Get out." Bosco's face reddened.

Patrick stepped toward him. "You have them in protective custody, don't you?"

Teresa stared at Patrick wide-eyed. That made sense, especially if whoever had shot her was still out there. Why hadn't she thought of that? And even more, how had he guessed it?

Bosco's jaw dropped for a second before he snapped it shut. "How—"

Patrick chuckled. "How'd I know that? You have a terrible poker face. Though I suspect you must be a good cop or you wouldn't be in the position you're in."

Teresa reached out to Patrick, her fingers hovering an inch above his arm. Why she kept trying to touch him, she wasn't sure. She was sure, however that she never touched people so much before she lost her body. "This isn't going to work Patrick; it's only going to make him mad."

"You're walking a thin line here." Bosco fisted his hand.

"It seems so, but that's what I don't understand. You are getting way more worked up over this than you should, unless…" Patrick glanced down at the ring on Bosco's left hand, the hand fisted so tight, it turned a bright red making the gold ring there stand out by contrast. He made eye contact. "You're in love with her."

Lisbon gasped. Before she could think, Bosco hauled off and punched Patrick in the nose. Several detectives came running and held him back.

Patrick hunched over, holding his nose. "Ow!"

Teresa bent over to get a better look at him. "Are you okay?"

He looked up, his gaze full of consternation. "He hit me." He pointed at Bosco with his free hand.

"Let me go." Bosco struggled in the grasp of two detectives and signaled to Jane. "Get this two-bit showman out of my precinct. Now."

Jane stood and glared at him. "Two bit? Who do you think you're talking to?"

"Stop." Teresa shook her head at him. "The man just hit you and you're offended by that?"

Patrick lifted three fingers. "I'm at least a three bit. And I was good enough to figure out your dirty secret. Does your wife—"

Bosco lunged, and then Cho was there, placing himself between the two. Teresa's heart stopped. He was here. He was all right. And alive. _Thank goodness!_

"I've got him Serge." Cho placed a hand on Bosco's chest, then took a quick step back, toward Patrick. He grabbed Patrick's shoulders, turning him and quickly led him out of the bullpen. "You trying to get yourself thrown in jail?"

"Who are you?" Patrick didn't fight Cho, only held his reddening nose.

"He's my partner," Teresa chased after them.

Patrick's gaze shot from her to Cho. "You're Teresa's partner."

As they pushed past the front desk and into the lobby at a breakneck speed that had Teresa running to keep up, Cho stared over at Patrick, but said nothing.

She knew that look. As subtle as it was, it was his surprised face.

Once outside, Cho lead Patrick with a firm grip on his arm, away from the doors to a grassy area at the side of the parking lot. He then turned on him, releasing his arm in the process. "I don't know why you came here, but this is not a good place for you to be Mr. Jane."

Patrick rubbed at his arm. "How is it that I'm so well known around here?"

"You work with the FBI—"

Teresa whipped her head to Patrick. "You do?" He'd failed to mention that when he'd been talking to that Minnelli fellow earlier. She'd just thought he was a friend that happened to be a Fed.

"—and Bosco thinks you're here to snoop on a case for them."

Patrick rolled back on his heels then grinned. "Which case?"

"Like you don't know. Tell your supervisors that, yes, Detective Lisbon's case is still open, and no, there's nothing you could do to help." He placed his hands on his hips and clenched his jaw. There was something else he wasn't telling them. Something important about her case.

Patrick studied Cho and Teresa took a deep breath, worried about what might leave his mouth this time.

"She wasn't just your partner." Patrick ran his thumb over the side of his index finger. "She was your friend."

Cho took a deep breath in and glanced away. "You should leave. I called you cab—it'll be here any minute."

"How'd you know I needed a cab?" Patrick furrowed his brow, but was amused. He wasn't used to people acting like him.

"I saw you pull up." Cho pushed past, his shoulder bumping Patrick's as he went.

Patrick turned. "She's glad you're alive."

Cho stopped in his tracks and stared over his shoulder. "You don't know her. You don't know me. Don't act like you do."

"Just leave it, Patrick," Teresa sidled closer to him. "He won't believe you. He's too practical."

Patrick tossed her a quick glance before making eye contact with Cho. "Do I need to know her to observe the loyalty she inspires? It's clear that she was important to you and I can't see that being true unless the feeling were mutual. She was a good partner. She's glad you're okay."

Cho shook his head, then turned and marched back into the station.

A heady silence followed.

"You convince people that you see their dead family members for a living?" she asked.

"Uh, huh." Patrick rolled back on his heels.

"And they believe you?"

Patrick nodded.

"Huh," she said.

Patrick turned to her, hunching down a little to look her in the eye. "We need to talk."

The look in his eyes made her panic. They did need to talk. Her brothers were in protective custody, Cho was hiding something big from them, and her killer was still out there. She knew what her unfinished business was now.

She had to solve her murder.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Patrick sat crossed legged on his couch as Teresa paced a gutter in his hardwood floor. She was gesturing wildly as she spoke, her hands flying up and all over. Patrick had to fight to keep from smiling. She was something else when she got all fired up like this. The last time he'd been around a woman with this much passion was a little over two years ago with his wife at her death bed.

He'd been sitting in the chair next to her bed in his dad's mansion up near Lake Tahoe. They'd given up finding a cure and were trying their best to make her comfortable. He remembered her fidgeting against the stack of pillows behind her, while he stared at his hands, feeling for the first and not last time, dead inside.

The chemo had weakened her immune system to the point that she was contracting illnesses like the circus attracted patsies. She'd patted his check and told him to stop feeling sorry for himself, that she was the one dying not him. She'd burst into a fit of laughter that had quickly turned into a fit of coughing.

Patrick pushed the upsetting thought from his mind and focused on the woman in front of him.

Teresa tossed her bangs off her forehead then slowed her pace. "All this time, I'd thought I was still here because I needed to make sure that my brothers were taken care of, but it's more than that. They're in danger, if they weren't they wouldn't be in protective custody."

He'd originally thought she'd be more resistant to his surety that her brothers were in protective custody, but she'd taken to the idea immediately. It'd made sense to her too. It was the only explanation for why they couldn't find them anywhere and why Teresa's boss, a man who had some deep seeded feelings for her, would be so cavalier about her family's disappearance.

"I have to help them. I have to figure out who killed me and stop him from killing anyone else." She turned on him, pointing a dainty finger in his face. "And you have to help me."

He reached out to her; it was becoming something of a habit. She smirked at him and lifted an eyebrow. He shrugged, then patted the couch next to him. "Have a seat."

She crossed her arms and swiveled her hips, but then took a large step forward followed by a quick one, and sat down inches from where his hand rested. "What?"

He drummed his fingers on the smooth leather cushion near her hip. "All right. I'll help you, but before I do, I need to know everything you do. What's the last thing you remember before you… before you became a ghost?"

Why couldn't he say "before you died?" Heat flushed through his veins, and glanced over his shoulder toward the thermostat. It was still set at seventy-two degrees. He turned his gaze to the window. Low clouds hung in the sky. It wasn't hot. Why was he so warm? He unbuttoned the top button on his shirt and swallowed.

She blinked. "Oh, um…"

"Don't you remember?"

She pursed her lips and stared off into space. "I remember Bosco going over the briefing of the Tourneau Cartel Case. We had a sting. I was frustrated about something, but I can't remember what. We'd found a place where the heads of the cartel were going to meet. We were all given assignments—Cho and I were to enter through an emergency exit on the second floor of a rundown old factory while the other teams took entrances on the ground level and bird's-eye views from nearby buildings." She paused, pursing her lips as she thought. "We went in through a window and…"

"Yes?" If only he could hypnotize her they would have everything, but Patrick just wasn't sure how he'd do that if he couldn't touch her.

Touch was an important part of the process; it allowed him to trigger the hypnotic state and retrieve the memories buried deep in the psyche—something as small as a pat on the shoulder, holding hands, or brushing back a lock of hair could do all that. Not that he'd ever brushed back a lock of hair before. Teresa just happened to have a lock hanging in her face. Regardless, touch clearly wasn't an option here. He'd just have to do the best he could.

"I don't… remember."

He turned to her, moving his knee onto the couch, and his arm onto the backrest. "The memory's there—sometimes coming at it from a different direction can help. Take a deep breath."

"I can't breathe," she said with a hint of petulance in her tone. "Dead."

"Do it."

She made a show of breathing in deep, lifting her shoulders and puffing out her chest, but rolled her eyes in the process. "Now what?"

"For starters, a little less sarcasm would be nice."

She scrunched her nose. "Sorry."

"It's okay. Now I want you to close your eyes and concentrate."

Her eyes shut, her long dark lashes fanned out over the tops of her cheeks.

"What do you see?"

She shook her head a little and threw her hands up. "A hall?"

"Good. What do you smell? Hear?"

She sniffed. "It's musty and dank and…" she smiled. "Roasted duck."

"What?"

"Cho had roasted duck for dinner before the sting. It was faint, but still there."

He quirked his lips up.

She was silent for a moment. "Cho is with me. We're at a T in the hallway. He goes right and I go straight."

"What happens next?"

"I try to connect with Bosco and the team, I don't remember why, but there's radio silence. I enter a room at the end of the hall… there's a bright light and then nothing." She opened her eyes and faced him.

"That's it? Nothing else? You're sure?"

She glanced up and to her left, then shook her head. "That's it."

"No sounds of footsteps, or voices? No cologne or perfume? A rotting rat in a corner? What did the room look like? Was it empty? Was it dirty? Were there exposed beams or boards on the floor?"

"I don't know—I can't remember."

He nodded. "Okay. Good enough."

"Good enough?" She threw her hands up. "I gave you nothing. Wait, that's not true, I gave you 'we went through a window' and 'roast duck.'"

He shrugged, tilting his head first one direction and then the other. "Nonsense, it was very helpful. And I wouldn't be surprised if more came to you later." Victims of serious traumas with memory loss would often get their memories back in a slow trickle. He'd witnessed this on many occasions while working with the Feds.

She scoffed. "How was that helpful?"

"When you saw the bright light, could you smell roast duck?"

She screwed up her face. "What?" She looked down and sniffed again. "No. Why?"

"Cho wasn't with you when this went down—he's in the clear."

She sat up straight. "He was never in question!"

He waved her off. "If you'd smelled roast duck, he would be. Also, you were cut off from everyone else, which was either a coincidence or on purpose. I don't believe in coincidences, so—"

"You think someone intentionally had me killed? That I wasn't just in the wrong place at the wrong time?"

He tapped his finger to his lip. "Possibly, but I don't think so. It seems more likely that everyone was cut off from everyone else. Either way, it highly suggests an inside job. Someone who knew where you were going and had knowledge of how to use the radios."

"That's any number of people," she said.

"True." That kind of operation would be heavily worked—with lots of people involved, and not just the officers who were part of the sting. He'd have to think of a way to narrow that down. "What can you tell me about the Tourneau Cartel?"

"They sell guns on the black market; have been working the circuit in Sacramento for the last fifteen years. The cartel itself is behind the deaths of at least a couple dozen people that we know of, including an undercover cop, but we've never been able to tie anything to the top tier. It's always the grunt men who take the fall. They're dangerous and cunning. The cartel heads, made up of the Tourneau brothers, Rob and Paul, Nathaniel Krauss, and James Wood, haven't so much as been in the same room together since the nineties that we know of, in fact, that was why we had the sting going—they were all going to be there together."

He needed more. Needed personal information—needed to know where to start digging and who to talk to. "Did any of these men have any particular interests or hobbies? Like golf, or prostitutes, gambling, or a fondness for cherimoya?"

She pulled her chin back. "What's a cherimoya?"

"It's a lovely fruit with an intoxicating mix of tropical flavors—it looks and has the texture of snot though."

She arched a brow at him. "Uh, huh."

"You must try it some time."

She grinned. "I can't. I'm dead."

He frowned and the heat in the room hit him like a brick wall. He took a deep breath and ran a hand through his curls. "Right. It's easy to—"

"Forget," they said at the same time.

"I know. I've been forgetting too. Being like this—it's disconcerting." She stared at her hands in her lap, then chuckled and glanced over at him. "Okay, let me think. Hobbies. The Tourneau brothers keep a low profile as does Wood. We don't have a lot on them. Wood has a family, a big mansion, and stays mostly to himself. The Tourneau brothers like to eat at nice restaurants and to date influential women, women who I'd doubt would give you anything even if they had something to give. The brothers aren't exactly forthcoming to anyone out of the ring. And all of them share a lawyer who charges a thousand dollars an hour. He's the best defense attorney in the state."

"What about Krauss?" Patrick asked. "Anything on him?"

Teresa leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees. "Yeah, actually. He's a collector of fine art. Mostly paintings. We almost arrested him for purchasing a stolen painting two years ago, but by the time we got the warrant, it was gone…" She glanced at him, her eyes went blank, and she sucked in a gasp.

He leaned toward her. "What? What is it?"

"The room was full of crates. The room with the white light. There was a table laid out with weapons on it. There were bodies—they were all dead, and back, leaning against a crate, was a painting."

"What kind of painting?" There was no painting on the manifest.

"There was a pond with a bridge over it, and lily pads." She shrugged.

A wide smile split across his face. "Well done, Teresa. You just got us our first lead."


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Patrick left a message for Zak and snapped his phone closed. Considering his several attempts to contact him, Patrick thought for sure that he'd answer. It was late though, so he'd try him again in the morning, if Zak didn't get a hold of him first.

Teresa stood next to the big picture window, her hands on her hips pushing back her blazer. Her head was tilted to the right, and she leaned back on her left heel with her toe lifted off the ground. She hummed the tune of _Les Mes'_ "One Day More."

It struck him as impossibly tragic. A lump filling his throat, he crossed the room and stood next to her, his phone still grasped in his hand.

She cleared her throat and nodded to it. "I didn't know they made those kinds of phones anymore."

He held it up. "I suppose you have one of those smarty pants phones with the Internet on it?"

She chuckled. "Yeah, I do—did. They're pretty handy. You might consider getting one someday. I mean, you're what? Twenty-nine—thirty?"

"Twenty-eight, but thanks for adding two years to my life." It was better than the six years she'd added when they'd been at the grocery store.

She grinned. "It's time to join the fut-ure." Her voice caught in the middle of future and she swallowed several times.

Again, he was arrested with an overwhelming desire to touch her. What he wouldn't give to rub her back, to take her hand, to let her know without words that he was here for her. Instead he stuck his hands in his suit coat pocket and stood silently. The gray storm clouds that hung in the darkness of night inched across the sky, their movement barely noticeable unless you were sitting still to see them.

"Patrick?" Teresa spoke after several minutes.

"Hmmm?" He rolled back on his heels.

She brushed a lock of her raven hair behind her ear, then straightened her spine. "What happened to your wife?"

A cold chill ran up his spine. Since Angela's death, he'd never spoken of her, not really. Not with Cho and Pete, not with Zak, or Virgil, not with anyone. It'd been too hard, he'd just not had the right words. When Angela had come up before, it'd sent him off the edge.

But now here he stood with Teresa, another woman he couldn't do anything for except talk. And he would if it brought her some semblance of comfort. How he wished he'd been nicer to her from the beginning.

He cleared the thick lump in his throat. "Breast cancer."

She reached up by her collar bone, as she'd done before, then dropped her hand. He suspected she was reaching for a necklace that was no longer there. They stood in companionable silence and he waited for the normal platitudes, _I'm sorry for your loss,_ or _at least she's not suffering anymore,_ or the noxious _God's will be done._

None of those things came.

"How'd you meet?"

Being in the carnival, he traveled a lot, and lots of travel meant he met lots of beautiful girls, but he'd seen Angela and stopped in tracks. "We met at the carnvial—her family had been working a circuit in Texas but moved to Sacramento to join some of their family members in ours. We were fifteen."

Teresa faced him and leaned against the window, a small smile graced her rose bud lips. "So young. Did you know right away that you were meant to be together?"

"Not at all." He grinned. "The first time I talked to her, she told me to go find another girl to chat up, she wasn't interested. It was another six weeks before I got her name out of her. She told me later, much later, that she wanted out of the carnie life and making attachments wouldn't help."

"But you ended up together after all." She glanced up as though she could see everything he'd just told her play out across the air above her.

"Yes, well, she wasn't the only stubborn person in the relationship. It didn't take me all that long to decide that if she was leaving, then I was going with her." He ran his thumb over his bare ring finger. "I knew a lot sooner than she did that we were meant to be together."

She leaned her head back against the window. "So perfect."

Patrick took a deep breath, feeling for the first time in months a calm reverie take over him, and pulled himself back from memory lane.

"What was she like?" Teresa asked. "Aside from stubborn, that is."

"She was…" There were so many words, too many words to describe her, yet he found himself at a loss. He cleared his throat of the lump forming there. "She was… she was—"

"Let me guess."

He arched an eyebrow at her, but lifted a hand for her to go ahead.

"Determined, quick witted, intelligent, and not willing to put up with any guff?"

"Good guess."

"Not really," Teresa said. "She'd have to be all those things to keep up with you."

He widened his eyes—in shock. "Was that a compliment?" It had sure sounded like one. He puffed out his chest.

"Sure." She chuckled.

"She was a lot like you, actually." He leaned against the window. "And you're just as beautiful."

Teresa dropped her gaze to her hands. "Is that why you decided to help me? Because I'm like her?"

He shrugged. "It helped." The honesty was refreshing. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so upfront with a woman, or in general. His life was one big show—one manipulation after another. And the best part was that Teresa was taking it in stride. Sure, one could argue that she couldn't run away if she wanted to, but he sensed a change—something different between them now. "It's been a long time since a woman placed expectations on me. It was nice."

"And I thought you wanted me to go away?"

He nodded. "I did, but I'm glad you didn't."

She smiled, but kept her eyes down.

"What about you?"

She looked at him, the cute little line between her brows returned. "What do you mean?"

"Surely you had a boyfriend?" He set his arm on the windowsill, his fingers resting a mere inch from her arm. The tips of his fingers tingled at the nearness, something that seemed to be happening more and more when she was near.

She glanced heavenward and sighed. "I wanted so much from my life. I had a five-year plan, and now…" She faced him; her honey-hued irises glittered in the lowlight coming from out the window. "I'm twenty-six. Was twenty-six. I lived in Chicago until I was sixteen when my mom died, then my dad packed us up and moved here, and here I've stayed ever since. My dad died when I was nineteen and my life became all about taking care of my brothers and becoming a cop. I don't regret that, but I thought I had more time. A lifetime."

Patrick knew that particular feeling well. Also, it hadn't escaped his notice that she didn't answer the boyfriend question.

"James isn't even out of high school yet, Tommy's still in college and will drown in student debt, and Stan just barely got a job in town and was counting on me to help him find a place and get set up. Who's going to watch out for them now?" Her voice became thick with emotion.

"No, please don't…" He stepped closer to her. "Don't worry about that. If nothing else, I'll make sure your brothers are taken care of. I promise, I'll do that for you."

She turned, bringing them face to face and toe to toe. "Why? You barely know me."

"I know enough about you."

She shook her head. "No—"

"Aside from the stubborn, talking back behavior?" He pointed to her and chuckled.

"Very funny."

"So are you. I knew I liked you when you started singing one-hundred bottles of beer on the wall with me. Turning my ploy back on me like that—that was quick. Though, admittedly I tried to deny it. You have a determination about you that's almost unparalleled. Raising three younger brothers from nineteen while working to become an officer, refusing to let me off the hook when I wanted you to go away. That in and of itself wasn't an easy feat, I'm difficult, not to mention the mere fact that you're still here—"

"I don't know why I'm here."

"If I had to guess, you told the reaper to step off, that you still had work to do. And despite your diminutive stature, he rightfully decided that letting you deal with your unfinished business was the smart move. And I can't say I'd disagree with him. 'Though she be but little, she is fierce.'" He quoted _A Midsummer's Night Dream_ again.

She rolled her eyes, but smiled while doing it.

He hunched down to make eye contact. "Your coworkers love you and are fiercely loyal to you. In my experience, that kind of devotion is rare, and that makes you special. Perhaps I've only known you for a few days, but you, my dear, are a wonderfully colorful, strong, and a hopeful open book. And I can't wait to turn the page."

"You've learned all that, have you?" She held his eye contact and bit her lip, and with that he learned then that she was also bold. The look she was giving him now alone was enough to convince him that her regrets didn't just stem from her worry for her brothers or coworkers. She'd said she wanted more from her life, and her look told him what more she wanted. Or at least part of it.

He grinned.

"I like you very much, Teresa," he said, and a cold chill gripped him, wiping out the heat that had taken him, winding its way through his skin, twisting and turning to the core of him. She was lovely, in every way possible, and soon she'd be gone too. "I'd be honored to look after your brothers. And we will figure out what happened to you and make those responsible pay."

#

Hours later, sitting on the couch, Patrick slept as Teresa replayed everything he'd said to her. Never in all her twenty-six years of life had a man said anything remotely as thrilling as what Patrick had said. It sucked that she'd had to die to hear it.

It hadn't escaped her notice either, that while he'd been saying it, he'd been slowly inching closer to her. And, while he could never touch her, she'd felt his proximity like a cool breeze on a warm summer day, caressing across her skin or whatever she had now. The mere suggestion of it so powerful to her mind that she quickly banished the thought of what it might be like if he could _actually_ touch her. Entertaining those ideas would only make this harder.

It was the one regret she'd kept to herself—the fact that she'd never fallen in love. Not that she was falling in love with Patrick, she barely knew the man, and even if she did, she was dead. No, she had to lock those feelings down.

Still… She leaned her head back against the sofa and stared at the man beside her—looking at him wouldn't hurt. No one would know but her. One of his large curls rested on his forehead, shinning bright gold even in the dark. How she wished she could push it back.

On their first meeting, he'd been a mess—unshaved, rumpled, and worn out. But now, he was different. Of course sleep, a shower, shave, and a change of clothes had helped, and the fact that he really _was_ gorgeous, but it was more than that. He wasn't the self-centered, shallow man she'd seen on TV a month ago. The sleazy stock broker in a near-shiny suit. That was all a facade, one she guessed he wore to protect himself from feeling too much.

There was a depth to him that she'd flat out missed. Sure, he was insanely clever, an amazing showman, and charming, but he was also kinder than he wanted to let on, more sensitive than he'd admit, not just about his wife but also to her situation and fears, and on top of it all, he was adopting her problems as though they were his own, and promising to look out for her brothers in the process.

How much things had changed in thirty hours.

She'd had plenty of time to think about why she was still here—for her brothers, for Cho, to figure out who killed her and stop them from hurting someone else—but maybe, just maybe, he was the only one who could see her because she was here for him too? Sure, he'd warned her off trying to find his wife, and she'd respect that, but maybe she could help him in some other way.

As of now, she had no idea what would happen next, if she'd ever get out of this purgatory, if she'd ever go to heaven, or if she'd ever see another spirit, let alone Patrick's wife, but she was determined to help him get some closure. It was the least she could do.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Patrick woke slowly and peacefully, a golden red light streaming through his eyelids letting him know it was morning. He didn't move, or betray the fact that he was awake, but allowed himself to enjoy the soft tingle running up his arm, a tingle that he felt when Teresa was near him. When he'd fallen asleep, they'd been on opposite ends of the couch and he'd felt nothing, which meant she'd gotten closer in the night.

It took all his willpower to keep from smiling at the thought.

Instead, he waited a moment longer, and then said, "Have you been staring at me all night?"

The harried intake of breath confirmed her proximity beside him before she said, "What? No!" in an equally harried way.

He opened his eyes just as she shot up off the couch, the tingly feeling across his skin jumping ship with her. "I guess ghosts don't sleep?"

He stretched over his head and grinned when he saw her staring at his abs where his shirt lifted from the stretch. Her cheeks turned a lovely rose color that both pleased and confused him. She was a ghost, how was she blushing?

As a matter of fact, there seemed to be a lot of things about being a ghost that he had preconceived notions about. Like the fact that she could walk through wall, _and_ sit on a couch. And what was keeping her from falling right through the center of the planet? All these nuances. Who knew? But she was so lifelike, her actions so corporeal.

She turned her back on him. "No, no sleep—or at least I haven't since I died."

He cringed at her use of the word "died," and dropped his arms. She didn't have a body, but she was here, and he could feel her. He had no frame of reference for this either. When Angela had died, he'd watched the life drain out of her, the light drain from her eyes, he'd watched her leave. That had been that. Never once had he felt that she was still there, never once had he literally felt her presence. But with Teresa, not only could he see her, it was as though every cell in his body was attuned to her and that feeling was only getting stronger.

She kept her back to him, her arms wrapped around her middle. It was the first time he'd seen her take such a comforting stance—despite her circumstance and initial irritation with him, she'd been nothing but unrelentingly strong. The icy chill he'd felt last night, returned full force, using his veins as a highway system to freeze every inch of him.

He jumped to his feet and went to her. "Are you all right?"

She nodded, then glanced up at him with a forced smile. "Of course."

"Teresa—"

His phone rang.

"You better get that," she said. "It might be your friend."

He frowned, but pulled the cursed object from his pocket. The caller ID read Zack, and he fought the urge to throw his phone away. If they weren't desperate for his help, he would have. Still, his timing left a lot to be desired. He flipped the phone open. "Zak?"

"How's it going? What have you found out?" Zak's voice was gravely from sleep.

Patrick cleared his throat. "How fast can you get here?"

#

"Any thoughts on any of this?" Patrick sat next to Zak on the couch, with Teresa sitting behind him on the armrest.

Zak held a pile of Patrick's mail he'd picked up off the floor when he came in. He shook his head a little and turned his attention to the mail. "I think you need a hobby." He lifted a furniture magazine for Patrick to take. "For example, furnishing your apartment instead of your fantasies."

"It makes sense, doesn't it?" Patrick asked, leaning forward on his knees.

"That she was killed over a painting?" Zak shook his head.

"That's not what I said. She saw a painting—I'm just curious if you know anything about it."

Zak scratched his chin, then turned to Patrick. "Where's Teresa?"

Patrick pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. "There."

"Hi," Teresa said.

"She says hi," Patrick repeated. "In the last month or a little more, did you sell a painting with a pond, bridge, and lily pads?"

"Yes, a Monet." Zak glanced nervously in Teresa's direction. "A replication of a Monet—"

"She knows what you do," Patrick said. She'd guessed it on the cab ride from Zak's studio to The Big Head. "Don't lie."

Zak lowered his voice. "She's a cop, why would you tell her that?"

"She's a ghost," Patrick said. "Who's she going to warn? The ghost patrol? Who'd you sell the painting to? And don't act like you don't know. When you were reading that article, you saw something in it that alerted you to the fact that it was a painting you sold. And this is me you're talking to, so save us all time and don't deny it."

Zak shook his head and stared at his hands. "If I tell you, he'll have me killed."

"Joseph Krauss?" Teresa asked.

Patrick repeated her.

Zak's face drained of color. "He had her killed, didn't he?"

Patrick glanced down; the word "killed" hitting him like a fist to the gut. "He was involved."

"How is the painting involved?" Zak crossed his arms.

Patrick sighed. "She was doing a sting operation, they were going to arrest Krauss and all the heads of the Tourneau cartel, but she was shot before that happened. Before that, she saw the painting. You dropped the painting off in the building where she was shot, didn't you?"

Zak nodded. "Yes, but how does knowing that or seeing that painting help her?" Zak rested his hands on his hips.

"I've been wondering that myself," Teresa said.

Patrick held a hand up. "Everyone in the room was dead, except the person who shot her. And there was no painting on the evidence manifest."

"Okay?" Zak asked.

Teresa turned to him, eyes wide. "You're a genius. Whoever has the painting, killed me."

Patrick nodded, but was quickly starting to hate the words _killed_ and _died_ , and _dead._ He couldn't even enjoy her compliment. "That's the idea. But first, we need to be sure that the police really don't have the painting."


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Cops hustled around the bullpen of the 35th precinct, walking suspects to and from interrogation, working their individual cases, and shouting across the room to one another. After yesterday, Patrick found he was a little nervous to walk back into the lion's den. He knew why Bosco didn't like him, but the rest of the detectives seemed to think poorly of him as well, and it wasn't just because their superior officer didn't like him. It had to be the psychic thing. Most cops frowned on or were suspicious of anyone claiming to be a psychic, and rightfully so.

Detective Cho sat at his desk across the bullpen. The empty desk across from his sat empty—Teresa's. Keeping his head high, Patrick meandered across the floor as though he belonged.

"If anyone sees you, it's not going to be pretty," Teresa said. "These are tough men and after yesterday—"

"Let me worry about that," he said.

"Just hurry."

Cho stared intently at his computer and didn't look up as Patrick pulled Teresa's chair out and sat down. Patrick kept his gaze on him and waited. Cho kept busy on his work—either ignoring him or so caught up he was completely oblivious. Patrick guessed the latter.

Teresa glanced around the room, her posture taught, her hands on her hips. Patrick thought she looked like she was about to take down a suspect—then immediately regretted he'd never get to see her in action. He bet she'd been a great detective.

Patrick cleared his throat.

Cho glanced up and went back to his computer, then whipped his gaze back to him.

"Hi." Patrick waved.

The muscles in Cho's jaw clenched. He slid his rolling chair closer to his desk and to Patrick in the process. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm on your side." Patrick raised his hands palms out. "I want to help."

"You can't be here." Cho glanced toward Bosco's office door.

"We need to talk," Patrick said. "Please."

Cho clenched his jaw and then gave one quick nod.

#

Teresa followed behind Patrick as Cho lead him in the direction of interrogation room three. Out of the three rooms on this floor, it was the less trafficked. Cho opened the door and held it for Patrick to pass first. She rushed through before the door closed. She didn't like things passing through her, or passing through things.

They each pulled one of the metal chairs out from the table and sat. Cho placed his hands on the table clenched into fists. Patrick leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. Neither spoke—just appraised one another.

She stood at the head of the table, glancing from one to the other. She swallowed hard, then again, and then took a deep breath even though she didn't need it. Just the mere act of doing something she'd have done when she were alive was enough to calm her down. Habit was a wonderfully calming thing.

"You can't just jump in with him, like you did with Zak," Teresa said. "He requires more finesse."

Patrick's gaze went to her face briefly and then dropped back to Cho. To her, the message was clear. He wanted her to butt out. But Cho was her partner, her friend. As much as she'd come to like Patrick the last few days, he didn't know Cho.

"Ease him in," she said.

Cho's dark gaze never left Patrick's face, his stoic expression giving nothing away.

Patrick took a deep breath. "Are you a superstitious man, Detective Cho?"

Cho leaned back in his chair and rested one of his fists on his leg. "Did you come here to ask me that?"

Patrick grinned. "Are you?"

"He is," Teresa said, "but he'd never admit it."

Once, almost two years ago, they'd investigated a girl who'd claimed to be a witch. Cho hadn't wanted to go into her home, had constantly been looking over his shoulder, and had refused to give her his full name when she'd asked for it. Teresa didn't think he'd ever been so glad to get off a case as he'd been on that one.

"No," Cho said.

"Are you religious?" Patrick asked.

"Are you?" Cho returned, calm as ever.

Patrick shook his head. "No, but of late, I'm starting to rethink some of preconceived notions."

Teresa stared at him, a happy little flutter forming in her chest.

"Why's that?" Cho asked.

Patrick grinned. "I met a girl."

"Good for you." Cho stood and headed for the door. "You should go talk to her. I don't have time for this."

Teresa groaned. What had she been thinking? She'd known this wasn't going to work.

"I met Teresa," Patrick said.

"Patrick!" She hissed.

Cho froze at the door, his hand hovering over the knob. He turned to Patrick. "You don't know Teresa. The night she…" Cho cleared his throat. "She'd never heard of you."

Patrick turned in his chair to face him. "I met her after that."

Cho crossed his arms; the muscles bulged against his sleeves. "Is that right?"

Patrick nodded. "I met her last week."

Cho breathed out long and in deep. "Mr. Jane, the Feds may believe in your psychic abilities, but I don't. And I don't have time for this."

"I'll prove it," Patrick said. "You can talk to her."

Cho dropped his arms and took a step toward the table. "Let me talk to her? Like you let that woman at your show talk to her mom?"

Patrick lowered his gaze almost imperceptibly. "No, not like that. That wasn't real. I'm not a real psychic."

Teresa whipped her gaze to Patrick. "What are doing?"

"I'm a fraud," he continued.

"Patrick, he'll never believe you now and he'll probably arrest you," Teresa threw her hands in the air. "For crying out loud."

"Fraud?" Cho repeated.

Patrick nodded. "Yes."

Teresa dropped her head to her hands. "You're supposed to be good at this. How have you managed to stay in business all this time?"

"Relax, woman." Patrick glanced at her.

"Don't 'relax woman,' me." She signaled to Cho. "We need his help, and you just ruined our chances."

Patrick signaled to Cho. "He's still here, isn't he?"

Cho's gaze narrowed slightly. "I suppose that's her you're talking to?"

Patrick signaled to her with his hand flat and pointing in her direction. "And arguing with me. She thinks for a successful fraud that I stink at it."

"Mr. Jane," Cho said. "I'm not going to ask you again. Leave or I'll arrest you." He headed for the door again.

"I told you!" Teresa said.

Patrick turned to her. "Tell me something about him only you would know."

She shook her head, panic welling in her. "He has a scar on his left butt cheek."

Patrick turned to Cho. "You have a scar on your left—" Patrick shook his head and faced her. "Wait, how do you know that?"

Cho turned around again. "What?"

"I was there when he was shot," Teresa said.

"She was there when you were shot," Patrick said.

"Everyone in the station knows that," Cho said, but they seemed to have his full attention now.

She bit her thumbnail. "Right. After he was released from the hospital, the guys were making fun of him for getting shot there, and he mooned them all. Thankfully I wasn't there for it, but someone took a picture and his scar and butt cheeks were tapped all over the bullpen for weeks. I know more about that man's butt than I or ever wanted too."

Patrick closed his eyes for a second. "I need something that only you would know."

Teresa paced the floor—she knew him better than just about anyone. There had to be something. Cho's gaze darted between Patrick and where Patrick was looking at her. He made no move to leave, his mouth hung slightly agape.

She wasn't sure it was because he believed what was happening, but they were giving show enough. Maybe he was deciding whether Patrick was on drugs. _On drugs… On drugs!_

She stopped in her tracks and turned to Jane. "The first time we found a dead body, it was of a teen girl—Karen Lewis—she'd overdosed." It was after her case that the two of them starting getting really close. It'd also been the first time they'd ever hugged.

Patrick repeated her.

Cho's eyes widened.

"For months after we closed that case, Cho dreamed about a white dragon and the number four. He thought it was bad luck and that one of us was going to get killed. He never told anyone that, but me."

Patrick told Cho what she'd said, then said, "That's an interesting dream. Isn't white symbolic of death in Asian culture?"

"Yes. The white dragon is symbolic of death and rebirth. It was an omen." Cho sat down. "She's really is here, isn't she?"

Patrick nodded. "Yes. She is."

Cho scrubbed a hand down his face and cussed under his breath.

A lump formed in Teresa's throat. He believed. "My brothers," she choked out. "Ask him about my brothers."

Patrick leaned on the table. "She wants to know about her brothers."

"They're safe—in protective custody." Cho glanced around.

Patrick pointed to where she stood.

Cho faced her. "I don't know what you remember or know from that night. The Tourneau brothers, Wood, and Krauss are all dead along with a few of their lackeys. They were gunned down."

Patrick glanced at her.

She nodded, remembering the bodies she'd seen and now suddenly their faces. It had been those men.

"She knows," Patrick said.

"After that night, several of the lesser members tried to take over," Cho continued. "We don't know who shot those men or you, but thought it'd be safer to get your brothers out of here until the civil war ends. They've rounded up most of the remaining influencers. That's all I know. We don't have the case anymore."

Teresa sucked in a breath. That's what Cho had been keeping from Patrick yesterday.

"What happened?" Patrick asked.

Cho shook his head. "Assistant DA Striker recommended the case be reassigned to another precinct because of how close all of us are to the case. I don't blame her—we're all pretty sure that this was an inside job, so it made sense to transfer it. We don't know who's dirty."

"Why do you think it was an inside job?" Patrick laced his hands together.

"Whoever killed those men was able to do so and get out before we got there—that wasn't luck," Cho said.

"I agree," Patrick said.

"What do you need from me?" Cho asked.

"Teresa saw a painting before she was…" Patrick fidgeted in his seat. "Do you know what happened to it?"

"A painting?" Cho furrowed his brow. "I never saw a painting, but I was more focused on Lisbon and getting her to the hospital. Have you looked at the evidence manifest?"

"Yesterday, before your boss kicked me out," Patrick said. "It wasn't on there. Can we ask the team that has the case?"

"We don't know who has it," Cho said. "But I know who does know. Striker. This was supposed to be a career making case for her. If anyone knows what's going on, or about a painting, it'll be her. She's kept close tabs on it. She'll be hard to get to though. She's been refusing to talk to anyone from our precinct about this case."

Teresa turned to Patrick and made eye contact, his blue-green gaze boring into her. "We've got to talk to her."

"Don't worry about that," Patrick said. "I have contacts. We will."

They were getting close now. Soon they'd know what happened to the painting, and after that they'd find who'd killed her. And she equally wanted and feared it.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

A weasel of a little man sat at the reception desk in front of Stephanie Striker's office door. His suit coat hung loose on his shoulders and his nose was too pert for a man. Patrick stopped at the desk and rolled back on his heels.

The Weasel peered up at him and straightened his little spine as he stuck his chin in the air. "Can I help you?"

"Patrick Jane to see Stephanie Striker."

Weasel turned his attention to his keyboard and tapped each key slowly and with only his index fingers—making no acknowledgment of what Patrick said.

Teresa shoved her hands in her front jean pockets. "Isn't he a bundle of joy?"

Patrick grinned.

"Ah, here you are," Weasel said, his voice unfortunately stuffy sounding making the rodent in him even more pronounced. "Take a seat; she'll be with you in a minute."

Patrick didn't bother responding, only headed to a chair across from the desk. Weasel whined about something under his breath. Patrick only heard "ungrateful." It took all his self-control not to hypnotize him into a better personality. He didn't think Teresa would approve, or that it would make the kind of impression on Striker he was going for.

From what Teresa had told him yesterday after seeing Cho, Striker was harder than ring toss at the carnival. And from what he'd seen in her picture, he believed it. It probably wasn't going to help that Patrick had talked Virgil into lying for him and telling her that the Feds were taking over the case and that they wanted to set up a meeting with her.

She'd had to clear a spot to get him in today. If the reception from her weasel was anything to go by, the rescheduling hadn't been easy. He didn't have to be told that she was a busy woman. Still, they'd gotten in and only a day on from when Virgil had called. Patrick had been grateful for that, simply because Teresa was on edge.

She sat in a chair next to him, her hands laced in front of her, and her legs bouncing in place. He reached over to rest his hand on her leg, then remembered he couldn't touch her. He lifted his hand and squeezed it into a fist before straightening his fingers.

It was becoming increasingly more difficult to remember, especially when he could feel her so strongly beside him, sending tingles through his entire body. Even feet away, he could feel her now. Albeit less pronounced, but still. Her there-ness was getting stronger.

He turned to her. "Relax—it's going to be fine. I know what I'm doing."

"Right," she said, the bouncing continuing.

He rolled his eyes. "I am good at it."

She nodded. "I believe you."

"Then stop bouncing your legs, you're driving me crazy." And not just because it was obnoxious, or because of the tingles, but because if he were any more aware of her and her constant presence and proximity, and unable to touch her, he was pretty sure he really would lose his mind. It was torture. Pure and simple.

As much as he craved being near her, he'd left her in the living room by herself last night and had gone to his room to sleep. He'd needed some space. It'd about killed him to separate from her, knowing that soon she'd be gone for good. He was becoming too attached and starting to fear what would happen to him when she left. Now that he was out of his drunken, self-pitying haze, he dreaded going back to that.

He had no intention of it, but it hadn't been his intention to go off the rails after Angela had died.

"Sorry." She held her legs still and lifted her thumb to chew on her nail.

He chuckled and shook his head. She was infuriating and lovely all at once. A combination that evaded him since Angela's death. All right, it wasn't a mystery why he'd never seen it. First, he'd kept pretty well to himself as much as was possible, and second when he'd been out doing his shows, the only women who'd hit on him had been less than thrilling—throwing themselves at him, not offering anything exceptional, interesting, or to be earned.

He'd been spoiled from such a young age with Angela that he'd never been into easy women. Sure, he could appreciate an attractive woman—mostly from a distance, Angela and a surprise other that happened to be bouncing her legs again, being the exception. What really turned him on was a clever mind, quick wit, and a will made of iron. And the only two women he'd ever really been attracted to both had those qualities in spades.

"She's a great attorney. She's slated to be the next DA." Teresa pushed a lock of her hair behind her ears, but refused to look at him. She really was nervous. "Who knows, she may already be on the fast track depending on what's happening with the Tourneau case. Just… don't be too argumentative, but don't be too friendly either. She'll see right through that." She gestured wide with her hand.

He leaned away from the motion. "Breathe."

"Why do you keep telling me to do that? I don't have lungs."

"Maybe not, but your mind remembers what's supposed to happen when you do it." _Exasperating woman._ "Most calming techniques are more about the mind than anything else, and clearly yours is still intact. Would you just—"

She made a show of breathing in deep and exhaling, lifting and lowering her shoulders for emphasis. "Happy?"

"Keep going. Breath in, one… two… breath out, three… four… five." He repeated this a couple more times for her until she stopped bouncing. "Everything is going to be fine."

"Patrick Jane?" A female voice called from the door behind the desk with the weasel.

Patrick and Teresa looked up at the same time.

Stephanie Striker came waltzing out in a black pencil skirt and strappy, red kitten heels—the look accentuated her long legs and tall frame. Her white blonde hair was curled in ringlets and hung from a ponytail over her shoulder.

"Whoa?" Teresa blurted. "You two going on a date?"

"I don't know, am I?" He jumped to his feet and took Striker's proffered hand with a grin. "Assistant DA Striker, I presume?"

She smiled, her red lipstick making her teeth look pearly white, and making _her_ look fierce.

Patrick swallowed. This wasn't the look someone chose for a meeting about a murder—this was the look you chose to make an impression.

"Please, call me Stephanie." She loosened her tight grip and signaled to her office. "This way, Mr. Jane."

"Patrick."

She quirked her lips up on one side and led the way. Teresa chased after them, taking two steps for every one of Strikers.

The Weasel glared as he passed—he was jealous. That didn't bode well. Patrick sighed and took his seat, preparing himself for what he was sure to come. Striker closed the door behind them and instead of going around to her chair opposite his, sat in the one right next to him. Teresa had taken it, and quickly scurried out of it, before Striker could sit on her.

Patrick chuckled under his breath.

Striker crossed her legs and rested her finely manicured hands on her knees. "I understand you're a consultant with the FBI?"

"That's right." Patrick gave a quick side glance in Teresa's direction as she took a seat on Strikers desk, trying and failing to come off nonchalant, and grinned again.

"That's pretty impressive," Striker continued, "from what I hear the FBI are fairly particular about who they allow to consult with them."

He shrugged. "I fill a need."

"And that's why you're here, is it?" She smiled. "To fill a need?"

Her turned toward her and crossed his legs. "Perhaps."

She raised a brow. "Where are my manners, can I offer you a drink? We have coffee, tea, water—?"

"Tea. Camomile or Oolong, if you have?"

She stood and went to her phone, making Teresa once again vacate her spot.

"Yeesh." Teresa came to stand behind him.

"Thomas, could you get me two cups of Oolong tea?"

"Yes, ma'am," Weasel said.

"Why are you asking for tea, anyway?" Teresa snipped. "Cho's waiting outside for us and if anyone sees him or you leaving with him—"

Glancing over his shoulder, he shushed her with a finger to his lips before Striker turned back around. He relished the way Teresa's lips pursed together and her jaw clenched. She was adorable when she was angry. He'd have to remember that later.

Striker turned around and leaned against the very spot Teresa had just vacated. "I have a confession." She rested her hands at either side of her hips and leaned forward slightly—enough to let her blouse drop down a little and provide a peek-a-boo view.

Teresa breathed loudly beside him. He doubted she could see what he was seeing of Striker from her slightly higher vantage point, but she didn't like where this conversation was going.

He couldn't say he disagreed with her.

"Oh?" he asked.

"I looked you up yesterday."

Teresa threw her hands up. "So what? I'd have done the same thing. It's always a good to prepare before you meet someone."

"I'm sorry about your wife." Striker strummed the fingers of her right hand against her desk.

Patrick's smile dropped just a little. This kind of line was easier to buy from people who actually knew him, possibly cared, but this woman didn't know the first thing about him. No, she was digging.

"Thank you."

"How'd it happen? I didn't see anything in my search." She moved away from the desk and made her way back to the chair next to him.

"Cancer."

"I can't imagine how awful that must have been." Striker tilted her head. She was trying to throw him off. Make him uncomfortable.

He cleared his throat. "My wife isn't the reason we're having this meeting."

"You want to know what I know about the Tourneau Cartel." Striker clasped her hands in front of her.

He nodded once. "That would be nice. You have to understand Ms. Striker—"

"Stephanie."

"Stephanie. I'm not here to help with this case; I'm here because the men I work for want to know if it's time for them to take over this case."

In Patrick's peripheral vision, Teresa fidgeted with her shirt and then her hair. "Don't lay it on too thick—she's used to that in this line of business." She was speaking from experience.

Not that it mattered. It may be the truth in most cases but not here. This woman was all about business. It was easy to tell from her cold yet serviceable furniture, the awards she'd placed strategically behind her desk with all her law books to ensure that anyone who came in would see them, and her lack of any kind of homey decoration. There was not a photo, painting, plant, or anything remotely telling of her personality. Anywhere.

This was not the kind of woman who flirted on the job, yet here she was batting her lashes as she flattered him.

Striker leaned closer to him. "Tell me, Patrick, what is it you do for the FBI, exactly? I read online that you're a psychic."

"I am."

She chuckled. "You don't really expect me to buy that do you?"

"Whether or not you do is your own business. My job isn't to convince you, but to assess the situation."

She leaned against the backrest of her chair, her arm draped over the side of it. "All right, fair enough. The case is in good hands now that we've taken it from the 35th precinct."

Teresa took a step forward. "What's that supposed to mean? Ask her what she means by that."

Patrick was careful to keep a neutral expression. "You don't think they did a good job?"

"Lord, no. Look at the facts," she ticked them off with her fingers, "they botched their sting, got there just in time to see the heads of the cartel bleed out from gunshot wounds given by an assailant that slipped through their fingers, one of their detectives was shot, and the cartel went into full-on civil-war mode. I'm amazed any of them still have their jobs."

"Hang on, now!" Teresa rested her hands on her hips. "There were extenuating circumstances."

"That's a little harsh, don't you think?" He held his grin.

Striker lowered her chin a little. "You either have it or you don't. They were way out of their league with this one."

"But you aren't?"

The Weasel came in with the drinks being careful to hand Striker hers first. The smile on his face when he handed Patrick his was enough to convince Patrick not to drink it. As the man made his way from the office, Patrick set his cup down on the glass table between the two chairs where they sat.

"No case is ever out of my league," Striker said.

Patrick uncrossed his legs. "So you're thought process is that we should leave the case where it is and with you?"

"No one knows this case better than me. In fact we're making a pick up tomorrow morning."

Patrick furrowed his brow. "A pick up?"

She nodded. "The shooter."

"What?" Teresa stepped closer to the woman.

Patrick scooted forward in his seat. "You know who it is?"

"My C.I. contacted me this morning, he's a hundred percent sure," Striker said.

"Who?" Patrick and Teresa said together.

She shook her head. "As much as I would love to tell you, Patrick, you know I can't. It would put my guy in danger. It has to stay between me and the officers on the case. You understand."

"I'd like to talk to your C.I., ensure he's telling the truth," Patrick said.

"No can do, he speaks to no one but me. He trusts no one but me. He's a very private person." She took a swig from her hot chocolate and then sat the cup down next to his. "So, you see, we have it under control. Tomorrow we make the arrest, and tonight…" she leaned forward and touched his knee with the tips of her fingers, "… tonight we celebrate."

A harried intake of breath came from beside him. Patrick held Striker's gaze, regardless. "Is that an invitation?"

"Absolutely. I'm in a good mood and would love the company of a charming man." She winked.

"Ugh," Teresa said. "She doesn't even know you. Your charm is not what she's after. Let's get out of here. This is pointless."

Patrick ignored the cold freeze slowly zipping through his veins and leaned forward. "When and where?"


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

Teresa fumed as Striker wrote down her address and phone number on a sticky note and handed it to Patrick. He kissed the paper and stuck it in his pocket.

"I'll see you at eight o'clock." He winked then sauntered out of her office.

Teresa rushed past him, fighting the urge to tell him to get a room. At the elevators, she jabbed at the down button, only to have her hand go through the panel. Patrick said nothing as he approached and pushed it for her. The flirty smile he'd been wearing was now gone, replaced by a tight jaw and pinched brow. She didn't know or care what that was about.

In the elevator, she stood behind him with her arms crossed and her toe tapping. Not that it made any noise, but she felt better for doing it.

When the number pinged on the third floor, she couldn't hold it in any longer. She had to say something before they reached Cho and it became even more awkward than it already was.

She moved in front of him and pointed up. "What was that? You didn't even bother to ask about the painting. Wasn't that the whole reason we were there? I mean, I thought that was the reason, but apparently it was so you could get yourself a date." She hadn't meant to sound so upset, but her words became more and more acidic as she spoke.

He clenched his jaw and narrowed his gaze. She didn't like this look on him—this anger. It didn't suit and it kind of freaked her out. "You don't know what you're talking about."

The door pinged open on the main floor. Cho stood in the lobby and headed their way.

She placed her hands on her hips. "Then why don't you enlighten me?"

He shook his head and strode quickly from the elevator and her and right past Cho.

"What happened?" Cho asked.

Patrick spun on his heel, and in a harsh tone, he was fighting to keep down, he toward the elevator. "That woman is a stone-cold killer. She shot those men, she shot Teresa, and I'd bet good money that our missing painting is at her house."

Cho pulled it together faster than she did and asked, "How do you know that?"

"We have to get a search warrant." Patrick was still refusing to look at her. "Can we do that?"

Teresa stepped forward. "On what premise? Your word? That's not how this works."

Cho stepped closer to him, keeping his voice down. "No judge would give us a search warrant on an Assistant DA without substantial evidence. Do you have evidence?"

Patrick breathed out and looked down. "She invited me to her home tonight. If I saw the painting, could verify it was the real one, would that be enough to get a search warrant?"

"You're sure your friend delivered it to the same building on the same day the shooting happened?" Cho asked.

Patrick nodded.

Teresa wasn't entirely convinced. Zak had said he was pretty sure, but he still needed to check his records. If it was even one day off, it would be a foot in the door Striker needed for reasonable doubt. She could've acquired it the day before. Without Teresa's testimony that the painting was there the night she was shot, they'd be up the river without a paddle.

"What's your plan?" Cho asked.

Patrick glanced around, and stared at something in the distance. Teresa followed his gaze to a security guard who was staring at them.

Patrick faced Cho, still avoiding her gaze. "I'm going to her house, I'm going to find that painting, and you're going to arrest her."

"Okay," Cho said.

Patrick breathed out. "Okay?"

"If Teresa trusts you, then so do I." Cho rested his hands on his hips. "I'm going to have to figure out a way to get Bosco to agree to this, which might be a trick. He's still pissed at you for not showing up that night, but I think I can—"

"Wait, what?" Teresa pulled her chin back.

Patrick lifted a hand. "He's mad at me for not showing up? What do you mean?"

"You don't know?" Cho pinched his brow together. "The Feds called us the day of the sting and said they were sending you to help consult."

Patrick took a step back, eyes wide, mouth agape.

"Didn't you wonder why Bosco disliked you so much?" Cho asked. "There were a lot of factors at play that night that we didn't have control over—you were just one. We can't find the mole and Bosco's been building to a boiling point. You just showing up like you did and looking into the case you 'didn't bother showing up for in the first place—' his words not mine, was enough to send him over the edge."

Teresa sucked in a breath.

Patrick faced her, making eye contact for the first time since they came out of the elevator.

Cho continued, "You gave a face to his anger, even if it is misplaced."

"Is that why?" Patrick asked. "Is that why you're here?"

It made sense. And until this point, nothing had. "We were supposed to meet—that's why I'm attached to you. I'm here for you," she said.

"Teresa." Patrick stepped forward and paused abruptly. "I'm so sorry. This is all my fault. If I'd just—"

She shook her head. "Stop that. It's not your fault. Even if you had shown up, there's not one chance in a million Brown would've let you in that building. The outcome would've been the same."

"You don't know that," he said.

But she did. As smart and clever as he was, she still would've gone in that building, she and Cho still would've split at the T-bend in the hall, and she still would've been shot. That's all there was to it. But suddenly all of this, being here, being with him, made sense. Her life was forfeit, but he still had a chance. Before she'd met him, he'd been rapidly spiraling toward life in prison, or very potentially death. Her life had been about justice, about helping those in need, and in death she was being given a chance to save someone again.

"This whole time, we've thought you were supposed to help me, but we've had it wrong," she said. "I'm supposed to help you. You're my unfinished business, Patrick." And as she said it, the truthfulness of it made her heart soar.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

Back in Patrick's apartment, Teresa stood behind him as he stared out the very window they'd been looking out the night before. His hands were in his pant pockets, pushing his suit coat back on either side and he was rolling back and forth on his heels. He hadn't said a word to her since they'd gotten back.

She rubbed the bridge of her nose and tried again. She had to. If he was going into an impossible situation that would get him arrested or hurt, she had to stop him. Not that she really thought Striker had shot her, or that the woman had any intention of shooting him. Her intentions seemed to be a little less illegal and a lot naughtier.

But if Striker caught Patrick snooping about her house, she'd have him arrested for sure. She wasn't dubbed "One Strike Striker," for no reason. He'd go to jail for sure. And Teresa didn't even want to think about what would happen if she decided to dig into his psychic stuff. Fraud would get him ten years in jail, in and of itself—more if she could find people willing to testify against him.

"Patrick, would you talk to me, please?" She moved to stand beside him. He'd been so quiet since she'd proclaimed he was her reason for being here. It had been rather bold but still.

He turned to her so they stood toe to toe. "You want to know where my accusations are coming from."

"Yes. I can't have you going in there half-cocked. I can't have you risking your future for my past. I just can't."

He flexed his fisted hands at his sides, then forced a smile. "Well, seeing as you're dead, there's not much you can do to stop me."

It was a joke, she knew, but this was the first time he'd used the word "dead" when talking about her and for some reason it felt like a slap across the face. She frowned.

"But to ease your conscience, I'll explain my reasoning."

"Thank you," she said.

"Have you ever seen her dressed like she was today?"

"No." Never. Striker woman always looked nice. She'd looked beautiful even in that photo Zak showed them on his phone. She dressed well and took care of herself, but today, she'd looked sexy and that's not a word Teresa would've ever used to describe her before. While being a detective wasn't the same thing, Striker's field was male dominated, and women in those positions just didn't wake up and try to look sexy—not if they wanted to be taken seriously.

"No. Exactly," Patrick said. "She looked me up online and prepared to impress me. She had one goal, to convince me to tell my bosses at the FBI to leave the case to her."

"So? That doesn't seem that strange to me. She's worked hard on this case and it's a career maker. I wouldn't have wanted it taken from me either." She rested her hands on her hips. Granted, Teresa wouldn't have tried to seduce someone to keep it. That would be all sorts of wrong—even if the person was Patrick. There was just something so morally bleh about it.

"That's what she wanted me to think, and she was very convincing, but didn't you notice her tone when she was talking about how ill equipped your team was and how she'd never be ill equipped for anything?"

Teresa had been pretty ticked by then and flustered. It'd been painful to hear this woman she'd admired speak so poorly of her unit.

"She wasn't gloating about her prowess as an attorney, she was bragging about having fooled you all." He leaned in a little. "She was way too pleased with herself—way too cocky. Also, I'd be willing to bet that her C.I. is really her. She went out of her way to call him a 'he' several times. 'He's a very private person. He won't talk to anyone but me. He doesn't trust anyone but me.' We know there was a mole, and she's fits the bill. She had all the details of the operation and if she was at the crime scene, no one would be overly surprised by it. She could just say that she's a stickler for detail and wanted to be sure that all the evidence was handled properly."

Teresa furrowed her brow. "Why would she do that? It doesn't make sense."

"It makes sense if she's been working with them the whole time. She's known for two things," he held up two fingers, then folded them into his palm as he named each, "her mysterious and ridiculously loyal C.I., and her closure rate. She's been playing both sides. You were going in, so the Tourneau's had to be dealt with because they knew her. She took care of them before they could be taken into custody. You just walked in a few minutes too early."

Teresa stared at her feet. It all made sense. But coming from him, she wasn't sure it wouldn't. He certainly had a way about him. She was pretty sure he could convince the maharajah that he was the first man on the moon and no one would refute it, he was that good.

Patrick moved closer, placing one foot between hers and one outside of hers, bringing them barely an inch apart. "She's going to pay for what she did to you."

Teresa glanced up, her lashes batting unwittingly. She swallowed. "If you're right, then this can't just be about me. If you're right other people have been hurt by her."

His eyes shined brighter in the glow from the setting sun, his lips slightly parted. "I don't care about those other people—"

She turned her gaze to the window. "Don't say that. If I'm here, it's because God kept me here for you. That means your life still holds meaning and value. You have such a capacity for good. To help people. And you should."

He clenched his jaw. "Maybe I will care about them later, but my focus right now is exactly where it should be—on you."

She closed her eyes. She couldn't do this, couldn't open herself up to the pain. She would help him, in whatever ways she could but not this. It wasn't fair to either of them.

"I want to ask you a favor," he said.

She crossed her arms and kept her gaze on the setting sun. "What?"

"I want you to stay outside when we go to her house tonight. Don't come in."

She scoffed. Like that was going to happen. If she was supposed to be his guardian angel, then there was no way she'd allow him to be left alone with that… that viper.

He took a deep breath. "Look at me."

She shook her head and spoke over the lump in her throat. "No." She turned from him and walked away, but when he reached out to stop her, his hand passing through her arm as he tried, she felt it. She'd felt it almost like she'd had a body. "I'm going to wait downstairs," she said, and passed through the wall.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

Striker's house stood in a heavily wooded area, forty minutes from the prosecutor's office downtown Sacramento. Her nearest neighbor was about a five minute drive away. The perfect place for clandestine meetings with criminals. While her house was by no means a mansion, it was definitely nicer than someone at her salary level should be able to afford. It was a two-story cottage with a wraparound porch and at least a couple acres of land.

Patrick pulled his car over at the bottom of the long driveway, the house barely peeking through the trees, and parked. Teresa sat silently in the back seat, creating distance. He grinned at her in the rear-view mirror but said nothing.

Cho pulled up behind him and went around to his trunk. After getting out, Patrick opened the back door for Teresa who hesitated a moment before exiting. Side by side, they came up behind Cho and glanced in the trunk. Cho opened a large metal suitcase and opened it. Inside were listening devices. Cho picked up a tiny device and held it in front of him. It looked like a small button.

"Put this in your pocket and don't take your jacket off." Cho handed him the device. "If you get farther than fifteen, twenty feet from it, I won't be able to hear you."

Patrick shoved it in his coat pocket. "Got it."

"What's the distress code?" Cho asked.

"Fuzzy bunnies." Patrick returned Cho's sober expression with one of his own.

"That's stupid," Cho said.

"You said I could pick." Patrick lifted his hands palms up. He liked Cho. He was a man in control of his emotions and Patrick could only imagine how fun it'd be wind him up. Maybe when this was all over, he'd volunteer to work with the 35th precinct again.

Cho shook his head. "Is she here?"

Patrick glanced at Teresa and nodded. "She's standing to my right."

Cho fidgeted. "Is she going in with you?"

"Yes," she said at the same time he said, "No."

Patrick gave an overly exacerbated sigh and turned to her. "If you're there, I won't be able to focus."

"Oh, please." Teresa crossed her arms.

"Striker's a smart woman, she'll know something's up, and that's not good for any of us." He hunched to look her in the eye. "Please, stay here. You're very distracting."

She glanced up and to her left, then breathed deep. "Fine. I'll stay."

"What's happening?" Cho asked.

"She's going to stay," Patrick said.

Cho gave one quick nod, then closed the trunk of his car.

"Listen," Patrick leaned closer to him. "You shouldn't stay parked here. She might see you."

Cho rested his hands on his hips but nodded.

Patrick turned to the dirt road leading up to Striker's house and wondered if Zak was already in place. None of this would work unless he was.

#

Stephanie Striker was many things. She was devious, willful, greedy, and to Patrick's mind most definitely a criminal, what she was not was standoffish, coy or religious. She opened her front door wearing a silk robe, and heels, and was flipping the sash holding her robe closed.

"Patrick," she purred. "You came."

"You thought I wouldn't?" He eased over the thresh hold.

"Some men find my forwardness intimidating." She shut the door behind him.

While Patrick didn't consider himself a religious person, every instinct in him demanded he flee like Joseph had from Potiphar's wife. Instead, he plastered a smirk on his face, and forced himself onward.

It occurred to him that Joseph was lauded a righteous man for running, and wondered how _he'd_ be remembered for this moment, when instead of fleeing, he headed into the finely manicured clutches of a harpy-seductress in order to seek justice. There had to be some kind of heavenly, heroic check being marked for him somewhere—surely. Then he shrugged. He did have a guardian angel; that had to be a good sign.

The click of door sealed his fate. Directly ahead a grand staircase ascended from a central landing and to the living quarters of the house, or as Patrick labeled it, the gates to Hell. A dining room sat to his right, and beyond that a kitchen.

Striker led him to the left and into a cozy sitting room. He had to admit she had good taste. And here, unlike at her office, her personality was on full display. The walls were painted cherry and accented with white base board and crown molding. A caramel colored couch sat at an angle to a fire place in the corner. Firelight flickered sporadically causing his heart to do the same.

Striker's heels clicked against the dark wood floors, until she reached an area rug in creams and browns. She slid her shoes off and sat on her couch, patting the spot next to her. Two wine glasses and a bottle of champagne sparkled from the light of the fireplace.

Patrick stopped in the entryway to the room and rolled back on his heels. "Nice. Very nice. Did you do this yourself?" He glanced over the room, his gaze landing on several rows of small square photos, four across and three down, hung over her fireplace. Very modern, not at all like the painting in the factory. He'd been so sure that the painting would be here, but now seeing her decor, he wasn't so sure. He needed to get a better idea of where it was.

"I like to decorate." She leaned forward and grabbed the wine bottle. Her robe slipped a little as she moved exposing a silk negligee of the same color beneath. The little pop when the wine bottle opened reverberated down his spine. She filled their glasses and reached his out to him.

Coming into the room, he took the proffered drink and sat on the couch. He was careful not to sit too close or too far away to make her think he wasn't interested. Not that it mattered. The moment he sat down she scooted closer to him.

She lifted her glass. "To… new beginnings."

 _More like fast beginnings._ They clinked glasses. He took a sip of his wine and placed it on the coffee table.

She took her own swig, then set her glass beside his.

Her house was too large to find the painting on his own, he needed a clue. He turned to her, and next thing he knew she'd straddled his lap and had him pinned to the back of the couch in a slobbery kiss—a kiss that sent an arctic chill through his veins that not even the fire in the fireplace could warm. His arms flailed out to his sides for one brief moment before he remembered that a rejection was the quickest way to get himself thrown out.

He counted to ten in his head and lightly rested his hands on her hips. He'd almost calmed down, focused enough to handle this, when the tingles began. They shot up and down his body, replacing the cold with a warmth he'd started to become accustomed to over the last few days.

Teresa was here.

He'd asked her not to come in for this very reason. Not that he'd had any intention of letting things go any further than this, but he'd still not wanted Teresa to witness it.

As Striker continued to kiss him, he stared around the room trying to locate the brunette, but despite her small stature, he was certain she was nowhere close. While his ability to sense her, to feel her, had been increasing over the last few days, it now seemed to be increasing exponentially by the hour.

He leaned back from Striker, but she continued to kiss down his jaw as she ran her fingers through his hair. This had to stop. He cleared his throat. "Is this paint new?"

That did it. Striker pulled back and blinked at him. He gave her his biggest smile.

She grinned back, but tilted her head in confusion. "No, it's been this color for a couple years now. Why?"

"It looks new. It's always nice to show off a new painting—or paint job." He glanced out the window. "And I'd love to see your property; did I see a pond as I came in?" That should be enough suggestion and details to get her envisioning a painting with a pond.

Her eyes narrowed for a split second before her gaze flitted upwards to the bedrooms. "Not much of a pond," she batted her lashes. "More like a glorified puddle."

"I'd like to see it, your whole property, sometime." He swallowed and hoped Teresa would understand his purpose for what he was about to say. "But, right now, I think I'd like to see your bath."

Striker's brown eyes lit with mischief. "Would you now?"

He lifted his brows up and down several times. "Please tell me you have a claw-foot tub?"

She rested her forehead against his. "I have a claw-foot tub."

Grabbing her hips, he moved her off him. He stood, and he helped her to her feet. "Why don't you go run the water while I finish my wine?"

"Great idea." She sashayed out of the room and up stairs.

He moved closer to the entrance of the living room where he could see her until she disappeared out of view on the second floor, and then he turned toward the entryway. "Teresa, where are you?"

Striker peered down over the banister. "What was that? Who's Teresa?"

He stared up at her, covertly removing his cell phone from his coat pocket and holding it up. "My dog. She's a yappy little thing. If I don't call and leave messages for her on my answering machine, she bothers the neighbors."

Striker frowned at him. "All right. Hurry on up."

He pointed his cell at her. "Sure thing."

When she headed back down the hall, he called again in a yell-whisper. "Teresa?"

She stepped out from behind the wall, the scowl on her lovely face temporarily warring with confusion. "Yappy? What am I, a poodle?"

"No, a Schipperke. Small with shiny raven hair, a big personality, and willful personality." He pointed his phone at her. "I told you to wait outside."

She scowled at him. "I'm not your dog."

He grinned. "I know. If you were you'd still be outside."

She swatted at him, but he evaded. "How'd you know I was here?"

"I could feel you." He stepped closer.

She scrunched her face on one side. "What?"

"I can feel when you're near."

She pulled her jaw back. "You can?"

The groaning of old pipes filling with rushing water, followed by the recognizable splash of liquid hitting porcelain made him glance upstairs. They didn't have a lot of time. "The painting is up there somewhere. Can you find it while I let Zak in the back door?"

She clenched her jaw, but nodded. And then she _flickered_ —for a split second, he could've sworn she'd vanished. Patrick blinked, then held his eyes wide for a moment.

"What?" she snapped. "Why are you staring at me like that?"

His stomach dropped like on a free fall ride at the circus. "Did you… do you feel all right?"

"I'm fine," she said. "Just go get Zak."

He nodded. He must have been seeing things. He headed down the hall at the same time that Teresa went upstairs, but before either of them had gotten too far, she called out to him, "Should I check the bathroom, or would you like to do that?"

He stopped in his tracks and let his chin drop to his chest. _Jealous, infuriating woman._ He smiled.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

Rushing through the farm style kitchen, Patrick went to the back door and peered out to the forest of cottonwoods swaying in the dark night sky. Zak rushed from the nearest thicket about ten yards away, emerging like a ghost from the shadows. Patrick opened the door for him, and he slipped inside.

"I've been waiting out there for an hour. What's the hold up?" Zak flipped the collar down on his gray tweed jacket.

"Women." Patrick eased the door shut again.

"Ah." Zak nodded.

Patrick led his friend upstairs, stopping just before the dark upper landing to listen. Down the hall and on his right a door stood slightly ajar—swooshing of water told him exactly what room that was. Light streamed into the hallway, illuminating the closed door across the hall and little flecks of dust floated in the air.

"I've never participated in this end of criminal activity before," Zak said in a low voice. "It's exciting."

"It's only illegal if we get caught before we find the evidence we're looking for," Patrick said.

"Patrick," Striker called from the bathroom. "Are you coming? The water's tantalizing."

Zak pointed at the open door and gave him the side eye before mouthing, "Is that the Assistant DA from that article?"

Patrick nodded and rolled his eyes at the same time. "I'll be right there, save me a spot."

She giggled.

Teresa darted through the closed door across the hall, the light shining through her, making her appear nearly translucent. She flickered again, quick as a blink, only this time he hadn't. He'd seen it. She'd absolutely, one-hundred percent, flickered. His stomach tied in knots like a freeway interchange.

She pointed over her shoulder and whispered, "It's in here."

He rushed to her side, smiling, Zak in tow. "Why are you whispering, no one can hear you?"

"Oh, hush." She pointed. "Get in there."

The door creaked as he opened it, and the three of them froze to listen. Water stirred, and Striker started to hum a random tune. With speed, he pushed the door open wide enough to get through. He and Zak squeezed in. Teresa simply went through the wall again and pointed to the far corner.

Passing a sleigh bed, they dropped to their knees in front of the painting. Zak pulled out his flashlight and held it on the picture.

"Is this the one you sold?" Patrick was usually pretty good at spotting fakes, but he was too hyped up, and this was too important to mess up. Zak was the real expert, and on top of that, he'd seen the real painting before, so Patrick let him do his job.

"This is it, I know it is," Patrick said.

Teresa hunched over him, her proximity sending funny and strong prickles down the right side of him.

Zak put a hand in Patrick's face as his eyes roamed over the painting, examining each and every brush stroke, of which there were many. He pulled a tiny magnifying glass from his pocket and held it over the signature. A smile crossed his face. "It's the genuine article."

The room filled with light, followed by the quick swipe of metal over metal. "Don't move," Striker said. "Or I'll shoot to kill."

Patrick raised his hands, and the three of them turned around. Now he just needed to make sure she stayed within fifteen feet.

#

When Teresa's gaze fell on Striker, standing before them in a robe that clung to her wet body holding a 9mm extended in front of her, it all came flooding back. Everything that had happened the night she'd been shot.

After hearing five gunshots, and being unable to get through to her team on the radio, she'd made her way toward the sound of the shots. Being careful to keep her steps light, she'd weaved through several stakes of wooden crates and around several I-beams in the room. The first thing she'd seen was the painting, its presence in this place so strange it'd caught her attention. Then she'd seen the bodies, and a table full of weapons.

She'd moved closer, and someone in a hood, appeared from behind a crate, gun aimed at her. They'd made eye contact, and Teresa had lowered the end of her gun a mere fraction at the realization of who it was. She'd thought it was a mistake, until Striker had grimaced and fired. After that Teresa remembered nothing until she woke up a spirit in front of Patrick's apartment.

"Patrick. I remember everything. She shot me!" Anger surged through her hot, biting and as definite as the bullet that had ended her life.

Striker pointed her gun at Zak in a quick little jerk. "Who's this?"

"Zak Semenov." Zak extended his hand to her.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Was I talking to you?"

Patrick rolled back on his heels. "Still think she's good looking?"

Zak glanced up and shook his head.

"She's a murderer." Red flashed before Teresa's eyes, and she and struck out, but her hand went right through Striker. She stared at her palms and scrunched her brow. Why wasn't it working? She was mad, madder than she'd been since she could remember. That should be enough. It'd been enough every other time she'd been able to move things.

Striker stepped through her and Teresa's body stung from head to toe, not unlike the how it felt to have a bad sunburn.

"The FBI set this up, did they?" Striker asked.

Patrick shook his head. "Why would the FBI be interested in a fake painting?"

Striker lifted her chin a little. "It's not fake."

"Okay, whatever you say," Patrick laced his tone with sarcasm.

Teresa came to Striker's side and swung at her once then twice. Nothing happened. She stared down at her hands and they flickered. She sucked in a gasp. "Patrick? What's happening to me?"

She locked gazes with him. His eyes widened, and his Adam's apple dropped. He clenched his jaw, and turned on Striker, his gaze hardening in the fine lines around his beautiful eyes.

Striker's gaze darted to the painting and back. She took a step closer. "What makes you think it's a fake?"

Patrick lowered his hands, then pointed to Zak. "Mr. Semenov here authenticates paintings for a living and he happened to sell the original of this very piece to Krauss. He says it's fake. But hey, you work in the prosecutor's office, so you must know what you're talking about."

Teresa shook her head and snapped out of it. She was here for Patrick. She was supposed to protect him—and if she couldn't get the gun away from Striker, she needed to at very least be on guard. Especially if Patrick insisted on egging the woman on in this manner.

Zak jerked his head toward Patrick, his eyes widening in panic. "Are you crazy? Now she's going to shoot me."

"She was going to shoot you anyway." Patrick nodded in Striker's direction. "Ask her."

Zak looked at Striker.

Striker nodded, and stepped closer again. "He's not wrong. Tell me what you know. When did you give him the painting?"

Teresa moved next to Patrick, facing him. "The goal is to get out of here alive, remember?"

Patrick winked at her.

She pulled her chin back. What was he up to?

Zak let out a heavy sigh and ran a hand over his hair. "A month ago. Krauss had me deliver it to an abandoned factory in the industrial part of Sacramento. He took the painting right out of my hands and this isn't it."

"What night?" Striker asked.

Zak lifted his chin. "The same night that officer was shot."

A slow grin spread over Striker's face, one that removed any suggestion there might have been in her of beauty. This woman was evil through and through. Teresa could feel it. Could feel the hate coming off her in waves.

Striker laughed. "Then either this painting is real, or you gave him the fake one, because I took this off his dead body right after I shot him."

Teresa's gaze whipped to Patrick. _Holy crap._ Had he just done what she thought he did?

Patrick's lips quirked up in the corner, almost imperceptibly. The smile didn't reach his eyes. "And you shot that cop too."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I did—I didn't want to, but she saw me. And now there's you—"

Patrick pointed rapidly between himself and Zak. "Meaning you're going to kill us too?"

Teresa sucked in a gasp. "Patrick, stop!"

"Afraid so, handsome." Striker moved closer, taking one hand off her gun to stroke his cheek. "And tonight could've gone so differently."

He reached for her hand on his face, and she tightened her grip on her gun.

"Don't," Striker said.

He pushed her hand away. "You have it all figured out, do you?"

"I told you I was good." Striker stepped back again and pushed a wet lock of her blonde hair behind her ear.

"And yet, you've underestimated me." Patrick dropped his chin and said, "Fuzzy bunnies."

Striker screwed up her face in confusion and Zak pulled back and glared at him.

Teresa dropped her head to her hand. "Oh, jeez."

"Excuse me?" Striker gripped the sash on her wet robe, pulling on it to tighten it.

He swallowed. "I said, 'fuzzy bunnies.'"

Striker tilted her head. "Oh good, here I was thinking that to kill you, and even your friend, would be a blow to the dating pool—"

Zak lifted his left hand. "Uh, I'm married."

"—but turns out you're crazy." She pulled the hammer back on her gun. "Come with me." She stepped from the room and signaled for them to follow.

They led the way out of the room and down the hall at her gunpoint and bequest and toward the stairs.

"Fuzzy bunnies, fuzzy bunnies, fuzzy bunnies," Patrick continued in a near frantic chant.

Halfway down, the door burst open, a large piece of the door frame flying out across the floor. Cho moved in, gun held high. "Drop it!"

Patrick grabbed Zak's lapels and pulled him against the wall.

Striker didn't miss a beat, keeping her aim on them. "My finger's on the trigger, you shoot me and one of them could die."

"You'll still be dead," Cho said.

"Whoa, whoa," Patrick said. "Where's the scenario where I don't die?"

Teresa glanced over the rail and then turned to Patrick. She flickered again. This was it. She could feel it. It was almost her time. Patrick's held her gaze, his eyes wide. She closed hers and doing as he'd instructed several times before, took a deep breath. She opened her eyes again. "Jump," she said.

"Jump?" He mouthed.

"Jump."

Patrick looked at Zak, who glanced heavenward but nodded and the two charged her. At their forward motion, she turned, just barely seeing them leap the banister as she rushed Striker. And then a miracle happened. She didn't hit her—didn't have too because right before she reached her, Striker took a frantic step back, dropping her gun in the process.

"Detective Lisbon?" Striker's eyes went wide and the report of a gun echoed through the room. Striker fell, clutching her hip. Seconds later, Cho was up the stairs, kicking the gun away, and handcuffing her.

Teresa backed up, a rapid thudding in her chest so reminiscent of a heart beat made her think, for just a second, that she might actually be alive. She glanced at her hands again, and once again flickered like a light bulb about to burn out.

"Teresa!" Patrick's voice reverberated from the hall downstairs.

She rushed to the banister and peered over. Patrick and Zak lay tangled in a heap, Patrick's head tilted up to look at her. "Patrick, are you all right?"

He took a deep breath. "You're still here." He swallowed, and then repeated more to himself then to her, "you're still here." He dropped his head onto Zak's back. Zak let out an exaggerated "Oof!"

Cho read Striker her Miranda Rights. "Stephanie Striker, you're under arrest for the murders of Robert Tourneau, Paul Tourneau, James Wood, and Nathaniel Krauss, and for the attempted murder of Patrick Jane, Zak Semenov, and Detective Teresa Lisbon."

Teresa whirled around.

"What did he say?" Patrick yelled from below. Thuds, bumps, and oofs quickly followed.

Teresa blinked at Cho and she whispered. "Attempted?"

Seconds later, Patrick bounded up the stairs. "Did you say the 'attempted murder' of Teresa Lisbon?"

Cho pulled Striker to her feet, and she groaned in the process. "It's just a flesh wound," Cho said. His tone implied _stop your whining._

"I saw her," Striker said. "She was here."

Patrick moved in on Cho, resting his hands on his shoulders. "Cho! Attempted murder? Teresa's alive?"

Cho furrowed his brow. "Technically."

Teresa grabbed her chest, the beat of her heart almost painful now. She dropped to the stairs.

Cho continued, "She's in a coma. But if her spirit is with you, then why wouldn't she move on?"

A smile spread over Patrick's face. "She's alive." He faced her. "You're not dead."

"Not yet," Striker said, her voice warbling. "But she will be. After tonight, she'll be gone for good."

Patrick shook her shoulders. "What did you do?"

Cho grabbed his arm. "Let her go."

"What did you do?" Patrick barked.

Striker released a slightly hysterical laugh. "I finished what I started."

Teresa pulsed in and out. "Patrick?"

Patrick released Striker and turned to her. She flickered again as he descended the steps to her, his face turning as white as a ghost, his expression beyond horrified, and then everything went the palest of blues.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

For the last month of her life, Teresa had wondered at the strange sensation of not having a body, but still being able to feel. It hadn't made any sense to her until now. She'd still been connected to her body because her body had still been alive.

She felt nothing now. Not her heart, not the motion of her lungs breathing in and out, and no connection to a body at all. It was only her mind, nothingness and a pale blue. Everywhere.

"Hello?" She called out, but there was no sound, no vibration of vocal chords, and no mouth. She was there but not.

 _This can't be it. This can't be Heaven. There has to be more._

But she felt no panic. Even her emotions were different. She wasn't afraid. She wasn't confused. Or even nervous. Her mind simply warred with what she'd always been taught of the afterlife and what she now experienced. _Maybe this is it._

 _But what is 'it?'_ A woman asked, though Teresa wasn't sure how she knew it was a woman, she'd heard no voice, only received the thought in her mind.

 _Heaven,_ Teresa replied.

Before her, an image rising from the lightest of cerulean appeared a woman with caramel-colored hair that hung long and curly down over her robed body, if that's what it could be called — it wasn't corporeal yet still very real. She moved in close, her smile contagious and making her jade-colored eyes twinkle. Teresa smiled in return, then glanced down as an image of her former self appeared. She too was clothed in white.

The woman took her hands. _Thank you._

Teresa blinked. _For what?_

 _For helping my husband. And for caring for him._

Teresa's jaw dropped. _You're… you're Angela._

Angela nodded. _It's time. You'll only have seconds, so you must act quickly._

 _What do you mean?_

Angela reached up, her long slender fingers stroked the side of Teresa's face.

A yanking sensation started from Teresa's core, barely noticeable at first and then it hit her like a mack truck going a hundred down a steep incline. And she felt it—felt the push and pull, as she was yanked in every which direction.

#

Teresa's eyes flew open, and she cringed in pain. Her entire body ached, her head throbbed, and the light overhead was way too bright—way too white. She sucked in a gasp and glanced around. Tiled ceiling, linoleum floor, an IV stand with a drip attached to her arm, and a heart monitor beeping incessantly to her right.

Beep. Beep. Beep!

She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying hard to relieve the pressure building there. If only the beeping would stop. She peered around again. Her door opened slightly and a fuzzy image of someone in scrubs squeezed through the small space, closing the door behind them.

Lilies, sunflowers, roses, tulips, and mixed bouquets of brightly colored flowers in pinks, yellows, oranges, and purples filled the room, crowding in and perfuming the air with their overly sweet scents. Why were there so many flowers? A massive glass vase of pink roses sat on the table next to her bed with a card in it. She honed in on it until her eyes focused. The card was signed "Love the Boscos," but not in Bosco's handwriting. Bosco's wife's probably.

The person in scrubs stopped next to her. "Lucky me," Scrub guy said. "You're awake."

She blinked up at him. _Who are you?_ He didn't respond.

He held an empty syringe, and pulled the tube back, filling it with air.

 _Now, Teresa,_ Angela's voice rang out clear and with force.

Scrubs lowered the needle to her IV.

Teresa flinched, grabbed Bosco's vase and brought it crashing down on Scrubs head. His face blurred in and out of view, his beady black eyes rolled back as he fell.

Shaking her head to clear it, Teresa ripped the IV from her arm, and with more effort than she thought herself capable, swung her legs out of bed and dropped to the floor next to her assailant. With all the strength left in her, she rolled him over. Yanking the IV stand down with a loud crash, she used the tubes to bind his arms behind his back; not tight enough.

His eyes blinked open, and he groaned.

"Help!" she called, but the words came out strangled.

He fought against the binding, and she crawled away over the shards of glass and toward the door. A piece jammed into her hand, her vision blurred, and behind her, Scrubs was now on his knees.

She reached the door, and pulled it open with her good hand, while she cradled the other to her chest.

An officer in uniform lay on his side on the carpeted floor in front of her, eyes closed, blood dripping down the side of his face. His peace rested under the hip he lay on.

"Officer," she choked out. "Officer?"

She crawled to the cop, her vision blurring in and out. He didn't move. Grabbing his wrist, she felt for a pulse. It was there but thready.

A slur of curse words flew toward her from the room. She rolled the officer and fell on him in the process. Pushing herself up slightly with her wounded hand, she reached for his gun. She undid the snap that held his gun in his holster. Scrubs grabbed hold of her legs and yanked her back.

Bile stirred in her stomach, making its way up her throat, as he flipped her over and grabbed her throat.

Gasping for breath, she jammed her hand into his nose. He fell back and cursed again. Blood rushed from his nose, splashing her. She scooted up again, toward the officer. Scrubs grabbed her again, just as she got hold of the gun. She let him flip her over again, using the momentum to swing the gun up. As soon as it hit body, she pulled the trigger.

Scrubs collapsed on top of her. She dropped her head back to the officer. Shadow figures raced toward her from down the hall of a hospital she didn't recognize. Indistinguishable voices called out. Her nausea increased tenfold.

She shoved Scrubs off and grabbed the fallen officer's hand. "Hang in there, buddy. You're going to be all right."

#

Patrick awoke to a throbbing ache in his hand. He sat up and leaned against his toilet. Lifting his hand, he examined the large dark purple bruise that covered his knuckles, the swelling, and the tiny cuts in his skin. He shook his head and dropped his hand to his lap.

Light shone through the glazed window over the toilet, illuminating the can of Bloody Mary sitting open on the tile floor before him. He scowled at it and rubbed his eyes.

The events of the previous evening came rushing back like fall crowds at the circus. He remembered the panic in Teresa's voice as she'd called out to him. He remembered watching her blink in and out, seeing her see it as well—the panic and confusion there. And then she was gone, like a candle flame that had been snuffed out.

He'd wanted to go to her, to rush to her hospital bed, but Cho didn't know what hospital she was in. No one knew. Her placement had been kept a secret for her own protection. A secret from everyone except the Assistant DA trying to kill her. He and Cho had both immediately made calls. Cho to warn Bosco that Teresa was in danger, and him to beg Virgil to get the Feds involved—to get them to her, to protect her.

Patrick hadn't reached Virgil and none of his contacts would help. Cho had reached Bosco, who had assured them that he would take care of it. There had been an urgency in the man's voice that had almost convinced Patrick he would. Except that he couldn't.

Patrick thought of Teresa's pretty emerald eyes, of the fear he'd seen in them right before she'd vanished for good. The look there had been the exact same look he'd seen when his wife had died.

And now, he got to live his life having suffered the loss of two women he loved.

He sat up and reached for the can of Bloody Mary, still heavy still full, and stood. He stared at his shattered reflection in the vanity mirror he'd punched last night and squeezed his sore fist. Holding the can over the sink, he tipped it and watched as the red contents, so reminiscent of blood, swirled down the drain.

The sight was oddly cathartic.

He couldn't change what he'd done in the past, but he could do things differently now. Teresa was gone. But the sun was shining and he no longer felt cold. And while he hadn't been able to believe it before, he knew now that she'd been a miracle in his life. He hadn't believed in miracles until one had cussed him out for wasting his life.

 _Teresa_. He cleared his throat.

Once the can was empty, he chucked it in the waste basket next to his vanity, and made for the kitchen. He opened his refrigerator and removed all his six packs, then took his Vodka out of the cupboard. He drained each and every can. Before the last of them were empty, a tear streamed down his cheek, and one more. He reached up with his thumb and index finger and wiped them away.

Once finished there, he went back to his living room and stared at it, the emptiness of it. Teresa was gone. He'd been here for months. Months. And this was all he had to show for it. She'd been right, he was pathetic. In the end, she'd been so sure she was there for him. To help him. He wouldn't be so ungrateful as to not accept that. He couldn't.

He moved to his couch where Zak had tossed the furniture magazine and picked it up. It's cool glossy surface trying and failing to send ice back through his soul. Even though every part of him rebelled against the idea, it was time to live. And he'd keep his promise. He'd find her brothers, and he'd make sure they were looked after.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-one

Three Weeks Later

The spring showers that so often kept the circus from opening had all but gone, and the circus filled with happy people, music, and delicious food. Patrick grinned at a young couple two booths down from where he stood as they won a large purple dragon. The trapeze act was about to start a show, and people hurried from all over to see it. Tiny colorful lights covering the Ferris wheel, combined with the lights from the other rides and Edison lights strung up around the fair grounds, lit up the nights sky.

The whir of the ride's engine and hoots of happy passengers filled Patrick's mind of memories from long ago. Memories of when he'd first met Angela. Memories that until a month ago he couldn't endure without quickly drinking himself into a stupor.

Leaning against the side of one of the game booths with his hands in his pockets, Patrick stared at the compacted dirt and hay below his feet. What was he doing here? He wasn't ready for this.

"Paddy!" Zak's deep timbre called out from across the crowd.

He looked up and smiled at his friend though he wasn't feeling it. Zak stopped in front of him. "You made it; I was taking bets."

"For or against me?" Patrick dropped his gaze again. This whole idea was a mistake. Sure, he was all for moving on with his life, not doing that was how he'd made such a mess of it before, but he'd made a promise to Teresa and had yet to fulfill it.

"Oh, no—" Zak said. "Do you know how hard it was to convince Valerie's friend to meet you?

Patrick furrowed his brow. "Couldn't have been any harder than getting me here."

Zak tilted his head from side to side. "True, very true."

"She'll be more comfortable without me here."

"What's happening? I thought you were ready for this. I thought this was what you wanted. What's this about?"

Patrick took a deep breath, the sweet smells of his childhood swirled about him. Cotton candy. Funnel cake. Hot dogs. They calmed him. "Teresa."

"I thought so." Zak rested a hand on Patrick's shoulder. "You'd think after three weeks that someone, somewhere, would be able to tell you what happened to her."

Patrick knew what happened to her. She'd passed on. And, now, after having met her, he found it strangely easy to believe that she was in Heaven, even though he hadn't believed in it before. He could believe that she was happy.

What he worried about were her brothers. From what he gathered from Cho, the rest of the threats within the remaining Tourneau cartel had been rounded up—there was no one left to keep them away. So where were they?

Zak had caught Patrick earlier today at a good time. He'd just spent several hours calling every single one of his contacts, looking for any kind of lead on them, and nothing. So when Zak had asked him to double, he'd said yes. Dating was part of living a normal life.

The one thing he'd miscounted was that it was too soon.

"I've had a long day, and I have an early morning tomorrow," Patrick said.

Zak nodded. "What's happening tomorrow?"

"Sergeant Bosco, Teresa's boss, called me a couple hours ago and asked me to come in in the morning."

Zak smiled a big cheesy smile, showing all his teeth. "Well, that's good, isn't it? Maybe he knows something."

Patrick shrugged. He doubted it. The man seemed even more clueless about what was going on than he did. If that were possible. "I'm not getting my hopes up."

"Heaven forbid." Zak chuckled.

 _Actually, Heaven permit,_ Patrick thought. _Heaven grant. Heaven allow._ But that didn't mean he would.

#

Patrick stared at the top of Bosco's balding head from his seat across the desk, the florescent light giving the appearance of a shiny cue ball. The man placed his gun in its holster, on his desk with a loud metallic thud. An intimidation tactic that was working a little. Patrick didn't really think Bosco would shoot him, but he hadn't really thought the man would punch him in the nose either and that'd happened.

"Thank you for coming in," Bosco said.

Patrick wiggled his nose. "You're welcome." Unless he got punched again. If he got punched again, he was going to hypnotize the man into thinking he was a runway model and watch the fall out as his men saw him flouncing around the office.

"I've heard the tape." Bosco unclipped the holster on his gun and re clipped it.

"What tape?" Patrick knew exactly what tape he was referring to, but enjoyed watching him squirm.

Bosco leaned back in his chair. "The one at Striker's house."

"Ah," was all Patrick would give him. The less he said, the more obligated Bosco would feel to say more. It was a trick many officers used to get confessions that Patrick had adopted. It was a fine trick.

Bosco cleared his throat. "What you did there was stupid."

Patrick twisted his face up. "Whoa, hey there."

Bosco lifted a staying hand. "Lying about the FBIs involvement, talking my guy in to participating, taking another civilian, and I'm guessing here so feel free to correct me, for the sole purpose of entrapping Striker?"

Yeah, okay, that was why he'd brought Zak, and he hadn't told Zak the truth about why he was going, but it was more fun that way, and Zak'd held his own. Patrick shrugged and looked out the window.

"It was downright dangerous, illegal in some instances, and risky—if she hadn't confessed, Cho would be on suspension and you and your friend would be in jail," Bosco said. "If I'd know what you were going to do, I'd have put a stop to it."

 _Which is exactly why I didn't tell you._ "You asked me here to scold me?" Patrick stood.

Bosco motioned for him to sit back down. "I'm not finished."

Patrick hesitated but sat.

"Which is why I'm glad you didn't tell me."

Patrick tapped his index finger to his lips. Well, this was a surprise.

Bosco rested his arms on his desk around his firearm and interlaced his fingers. "Striker needed to be taken care of, by any means necessary as far as I'm concerned. I fear we'll be cleaning up after her mess for years. I'm just glad I don't work in the prosecutor's office. They'll be going over every case she ever worked on for years. I don't hold to your claims of being a psychic, and generally think civilians have no right working on police investigations, but you did good. And on top of that, you saved Detective Lisbon's life."

 _Saved Detective Lisbon…_

"I'd like you to consult with us."

Patrick's eye went wide, and he leaned forward in his chair—his movement so fast, Bosco leaned back in his chair. "Teresa's alive?"

Bosco frowned. "No one informed you?"

"Wait, how? We didn't… we didn't know what hospital she was in, and Striker sent someone to kill her." He'd seen her… die? He was sure he had. Her gaze had gone blank; she'd vanished, taking all the tingles with her. It'd been just like when Angela had died. Just like it.

Bosco sat a little taller, puffing his chest out. "She woke up right as the man came in the room. He tried to kill her, but let's just say she got to him first, and saved the officer who'd been guarding her room in the process. In fact the mayor intends to give her a medal for her quick thinking and courage."

Patrick grabbed the armrests of his chair and stared at the green linoleum floor. His breathing came fast. _She's alive._

"Are you all right, son?" Bosco asked.

He couldn't have been more than ten years older than Patrick. Calling him "son" was condescending and meant to be. At any other time it would have riled him but not now. He looked up. "Where is she? Is she here?" He glanced out the office window to the bullpen. Cho sat at his desk, but Teresa's was empty.

"No, she took the day off."

He stared at Bosco again. "Took the day off? How long has she been back?"

"A week, give or take a day or two. She spent another week in the hospital after she woke up, and last week she was with her brothers in protective custody."

 _A week?_ She'd been back an entire week and hadn't so much as called him. He swallowed thick, relaxing back in his chair. How could she do that to him? Let him think…

"She's been through a lot. She's still trying to get her feet under her." Bosco cleared his throat. "So, what do you think of my offer?"

"What offer?" If their roles had been reversed, he'd have gone to her straight away.

"To be our consultant?" Bosco creased his brow. "When you're not working with the Feds, that is."

Oh, that offer. "I'll think about." He stood and headed for the door.

Bosco stood as well, and tugged his pants up by his belt. "You should know she requested you."

Patrick rested his hand on the door frame and glanced back at Bosco.

"Teresa thinks you'd be an asset, and so does Cho." Bosco rested his hands on his hips. "Think on it."

Patrick nodded, and left.


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: Hey All, this is it. Don't know why I kept getting chapter two. Weird. Thanks for your patience. Thank you for reading and especially to those who commented. I did find it helpful. Thank you, thank you! In talking with my editor, I'm thinking there may be cause for an epilogue with this story. Meaning, I'll probably be posting another chapter this week. ;) Thanks again for reading. It's so much fun being back here.**

Chapter Twenty-two

"Hello, Ryan." Patrick crossed the lobby of his building and waved to his doorman.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Jane." Ryan gave a little grin that he appeared to be trying to tamp down. There was something going on with him that Patrick would ask about later.

Getting on the elevator, he counted the numbers as they slowly ascended to his floor. Teresa had been back a week. He had to accept the fact that if she'd wanted to see him, or talk to him, she would have. And the simple fact that things were different now. She was no longer tethered to him, was no longer in danger or need of his help, and she had her body back. Assuming that things could just pick up where they'd left off was craziness.

He thought back to the first time he'd met her and how she'd cornered him here and how amused she'd been. How could she not be? She'd just spent the last month surrounded by people and yet completely alone. Then there he was talking, or arguing with her, and she was happy about it, because he could see her, hear her, call her names, and tell her to go away.

He chuckled, thinking of how annoyed he'd been that Ryan hadn't helped him.

The elevator dinged open, and he got off, shaking his head a little. What a different place he'd been in then, barely a month ago, that he'd expected Ryan to take care of a woman half his size for him.

Tingles shot up his spine, and he shivered. The feeling so similar to how he'd felt whenever she'd been near.

"Hello."

Patrick came up short and stared down the hall to his apartment.

Teresa sat crossed legged, leaning against his door. Her skin was flushed, tinted by the prettiest pink he'd ever seen, emphasized even more by the cherry red button up she wore, and her honey-hued eyes sparkled in the well-lit hall, shining bright in contrast to her raven hair which hung in barrel curls around her shoulders. She sucked in a deep breath, a nervous breath, her shoulders lifting and diaphragm expanding. And it was a sight to see, her breathing.

She bounded to her feet and faced him.

He'd thought she was beautiful before, but seeing her now so alive, was an entirely different plain for him.

"Um…" she said, "I'm sorry, I should've called first."

He furrowed his brow, and then realized he'd yet to say anything to her, and he had so much to say. "No—"

"Maybe I should go." She clasped her hands together and stared at her feet.

She was here, within touching distance, and now he _could_ touch her. "Stay."

She glanced up, peering through her lashes, a small smile gracing her rosebud lips. "Okay." Then before he could move, or even think, she launched herself at him. Her arms went around his neck, the sudden force of her slamming into him knocked the wind out of him.

"Oof!" flew from his lips, but he didn't care. He wrapped her in a tight embrace and savored the moment. The silky texture of her hair against his cheek, the strong but soft frame of her body against his, the way her delicate hands pushed into his hair, and the scent of her, oh the scent of her.

He closed his eyes and breathed deep the smells of vanilla and cherries. As wonderful as she was before, he'd had no idea what he'd been missing.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." Her breath tickled past his ear. "They wouldn't let me call you, and then I got back here, and I just… I didn't know what to say."

He ran a hand down the back of her head and chuckled.

She pulled back to look at him, her lips an inch from his. "What are you laughing at?"

"You," he said. "If you think for one second that I'm anything but ecstatic right now, you're crazy. I thought I'd lost you. And for someone who's been where I've been and felt the way I've felt over the last two years, that's saying a lot."

Her eyes brimmed with tears and she buried her head against his chest.

"How are you here?" he asked. The whole thing was cloaked in mystery. "Did Striker shoot you or not?"

She stared up at him, leaving a little wet spot in his suit coat. "She did shoot me, but turns out her aim isn't great. She hit my bullet-proof vest, and the force of the shots threw me backward into an I-beam. I hit my head. She thought she'd killed me until later that night when Bosco told her I was still alive, but in a medically induced coma." She lowered her hands to his shirt and fisted chunks of the fabric in them. "Apparently the blow caused a cerebral hemorrhage, and they had to reduce pressure on my brain. I'm really lucky though, they got me to the hospital quick enough that there's no permanent damage."

"But you were a ghost." He pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear, elated that he could.

"Yeah, well, when they tried to bring me out of the coma, I didn't wake up—not until that night. Somewhere along the way, I must have just…" She stared off to the side as she thought. "separated from my body."

"Teresa," he said on a soft breath. He pulled her too him again and held her tight. "You have no idea how much I've longed for this."

"For what?" she asked.

"To touch you. To hold you in my arms." Each time he'd reached for her, only to be denied had been torture, and now… He pulled back just enough to make eye contact.

She blinked, and her gaze dropped briefly to his lips.

He leaned in, pausing to give her a chance to back up. She didn't, only closed her eyes, her minty breath caressing his lips as she moved closer.

"Excuse me," someone spoke behind Teresa.

Teresa's eyes flew open, and she jerked away from him as his nosey neighbor passed them heading to the elevator. She gave them a haughty look in the process.

He chuckled. A flustered Teresa was a cute Teresa.

He saluted his neighbor. "Afternoon, Mrs. Jenkins."

"It would seem so," the older woman said as she stepped onto the elevator.

Teresa cringed and moved back to his door. "That was embarrassing."

He followed her, pulling his keys from his pocket. "Nonsense. That woman has ten children. There's not much you could do to embarrass her, and as for me, I'm shameless."

She bent down to pick up a can sitting where he'd first seen her. "Yeah, well, I was raised to always dance with a space large enough to fit the bible between me and my date. My perspective is a little different." She held out the can. It was a luxury tea mix, Rooibos Mango Matcha Tea, and tea infuser. "Here. For your cupboard. I thought you could use something other than Vodka."

He grinned. She was in for a surprise. "Thank you."

She swiveled her hips. "You're welcome."

He opened the door, gesturing with a wide sweep of his arm to let her pass first. Once in, he pulled it closed behind them.

#

Teresa came up short. The space that had once lacked every comfort minus a leather couch and a small TV that Teresa doubted Patrick ever used, was now filled with furniture. Two leather arm chairs sat with his couch around a wooden coffee table, atop a cream oriental rug. To the right sat a dining table with a bouquet of sunflowers in the center. A tasteful selection of pictures hung on the walls, and now, instead of a TV was a bookshelf filled with leather bound classics. It was so warm and welcoming; so him.

Patrick skirted around her, resting his hand on the small of her back as he came to stand next to her. "What do you think?"

"It looks amazing." She blinked, had to after too long holding her eyes open.

"Wait until you see what I've stocked my fridge with. Fruits, veggies, all sorts of healthy crap I thought you'd appreciate."

"Tomatoes?"

His eyes creased at the corners in his amusement. "Yes, but minus the Vodka."

She chuckled and shook her head, then it hit her. "You did this, even though you thought I was dead?"

He nodded. "After everything you did for me, the least I could do is pull myself out of my slump and get my life back together."

Her vision blurred, but she'd already allowed one tear to fall. She blinked them away. Since she'd come to in the hospital, she'd agonized over why Patrick's wife had thanked her. While she'd been with him as a spirit she'd wanted to help him, was sure she was supposed to, but seeing this moment is what finally brought it home for her. He was changing, and he was moving on with his life.

She spun toward him and surprised him once again by planting a kiss firmly on his lips. He dropped the tin of tea to the tiled granite floor and pulled her close as she leaned into him. She'd felt the connection, the spark between them when she'd been a spirit, but she'd pushed it back, refusing to give into it. How would it help either of them? She hadn't been able to see a happy ending from it, hadn't been able to see this.

And this was so much more than anything she'd ever imagined for herself.

His hands ran up and down her back in a comforting gesture—a gesture she never would've imagined she needed. Her knees went wobbly, and he smiled against her lips as he held her sure against him.

She was a cop. She was supposed to be tough, to face fear head on, to be able to take care of herself and need no one. In the end, admitting that she needed him, that she wanted him and his comforting touch, his often aggravating manners, his clever mind, and his desire to protect and take care of her was the scariest thing she'd ever done. Even more frightening than fighting for her life having just come out of a coma in a daze.

She moaned against his mouth, and his kisses grew heated, hungry, so much so they had to pull back to catch their breath. They held each other until their breathing calmed.

She kept her eyes closed, savoring the moment. "'The course of true love never did run smooth,'" she quoted.

He froze, and her eyes flew open. _Oh, crap. Oh, crap. Oh, crap._

He pushed her back, until he could look her in the eye, a small grin tugging at his lips. "Did you just say you love me?"

"What? No!" Her voice pitched high. "I… I was just quoting Midsummer's Night Dream. You quote it all the time."

He smiled his million-dollar smile, the one she found almost too impossible to resist. "And that's what you went with?"

"Yes." She shoved his shoulder, and tried to step from his firm grasp on her hips, but he held tight. _When did he even grab my hips?_ "I'm not… in _love_ … with you."

His eyes twinkled at her. "I 'What? No!' you too," he mimicked her, and then laughed.

"I'm not!" She threw her hands up. "We barely know each other."

"I wouldn't say that." His smile fell, his face becoming serious. "How many people can say they fell in love while one of them was a ghost?"

She gulped. _Fell in love?_

"We know more about each other than most, in a way. What we haven't done is known each other long, but I think we can amend that, don't you?"

She nodded.

With his thumb and forefinger he lifted her chin and lowered his lips to hers for one more impossibly sweet kiss. As he pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers. "Brown offered me a job consulting with your team today?"

She smiled. "And?"

"I told him I'd think about it, but as long as you're okay with it, I'm in."

Her chest squeezed painfully tight—the sensation strangely welcome after so much time feeling and not feeling at the same time. "You're a brilliant detective. Of course I want you there. You could do so much good, and I can't wait to see it."

"So much faith," he said.

"In you, yes." She tilted her head to the side. "I did wonder if Brown would actually go through with it."

"You doubted?"

She pulled her chin back. "Are you serious? Or did you get a minor case of amnesia when he punched you in the nose?"

"Meh," he said. "He's just mad I guessed his little secret."

She rolled her eyes. "For the last time, he is _not_ in love with me."

He kissed her neck, chuckling against her skin and making her shiver. "Whatever you say, my dear."

She shoved him back and marched off. "Insufferable."

Laughing, he chased after her. "'I'll follow thee and make heaven of hell, to die upon the hand I love so well.'"

Grabbing a pillow from the couch she chucked it at him then darted around it. At the same time she wondered if he was going to keep quoting Shakespeare. He caught her, toppling them both to the couch in a fit of laughter.

If he did keep quoting Shakespeare, she'd have to read up, so she'd know exactly what he was quoting. It seemed like it'd be a necessary self-preservation tactic.

He kissed her once more, and she melted into a puddle of bliss.


End file.
